


made it through the wilderness

by spikenard



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Multi, Other, Post-Series, Road Trips, magic made them do it except 'it' is 'talking about their feelings', trans themes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-25
Updated: 2017-06-04
Packaged: 2018-10-23 18:27:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10724784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikenard/pseuds/spikenard
Summary: Lynch was in a fragile emotional state when he pulled the Dream Pig into reality, and worried about maintaining his friendships, besides.As far as Henry was concerned, he should have stress-tested for that.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> THIS IS… a sarchengsey post-series road trip fic where the Dream Pig breaks down every time the people inside it Have Upsetting Emotions, because it’s a ronan lynch dream special and therefore Sensitive. this makes taking a road trip even more complicated than it usually is, especially because henry is Pining Away.
> 
> mostly canon-compliant, divergences are my own fault. thanks to @umbrella for checking canon for me, hand-holding, etc; thanks also to @horology for letting me steal & repurpose all the best bits out of chat. 
> 
> expect the rating and tags and content notes to change, i just haven’t finished writing this yet and don’t want to over- or under-commit.

After graduation, _ipso post facto_ , Henry found himself at loose ends.  His school friends, even those who hadn’t graduated, had departed for the summer. Solitude was unappealing, the itch to do something settled thoroughly under his skin. 

Henry boxed up his things at Litchfield House, and Lynch and Gansey helped him move them into the spare room at Gansey's factory. Well, there were two spare rooms, really, now that Ronan was living full-time at his family seat, but Henry’s things went into the one with the plain door, that wasn’t still lingeringly half-full of Lynch’s things. All the furniture in this room was bare, with the exception of a snow globe on the dresser. 

Henry had initially assumed that Gansey had moved into the living room to make space for him, and tried to politely refuse such a wholly unnecessary sacrifice, but the corners of Gansey’s mouth had gone tight at the suggestion. 

Henry had let the matter drop, but Gansey had still left the room, his shoulderblades upset through the thin fabric of his polo shirt, leaving Henry standing there alone in an empty room full of half-unpacked boxes and the force of Ronan Lynch’s personality. 

Ronan had straightened from his inquisitive curl over one of Henry’s half-unpacked boxes — the one labeled CONTRABAND in block letters — and let out a snort. 

“This room’s been sitting empty since he died,” Ronan said, blunt as ever. “Let him stay out there, he’s used to it. Don’t get weird. He needs to be in familiar surroundings before he dives into the wider world on your grand adventure.” 

“Ah,” Henry had said.

“Like new fish,” Ronan said. At Henry’s blank expression, Ronan added, “With the plastic bags. Baby steps.” He lifted up Henry’s toaster oven and letting it thump down on the desk. He didn’t move to plug it in. The cord dangled. 

Henry nodded. He wasn’t sure what to do with a world where Ronan Lynch was almost capable of psychological insight. He felt vaguely guilty for the petulant sophomore year sulk during which he had plastered Lynch’s number on the wall of every public bathroom in town.

“Anyway,” Ronan said, returning to the box. “I’m keeping this,” he said, digging out a plain white aerosolized can with a neon pink lid, along with a handful of pulp novels. Henry’s guilt evaporated.

“Let me see,” he said, peering at the books. Ronan spread them out in one hand, scowling viciously. Henry could pick out THE NAIVE HOMOSEXUAL, FRUIT PUNCH, and Henry’s battered copy of A SEPARATE PEACE.

“Sure,” Henry said, ignoring Ronan’s scowl out of an odd pang of charitable fellow-feeling. “You probably won’t like that last one, though, that was required reading freshman year.” 

Ronan glared at the offending book with nary a glimmer of recognition before dropping it back in the box. He looked back at Henry. Something stubborn in his jaw shifted, or softened. 

He graced Henry with a terribly butch upnod before departing. Henry let him go, the paperbacks jammed into his back pocket. He wondered when Ronan would figure out the can was hairspray, not spraypaint. He finished unpacking alone. 

&&&

And then: the Dream Pig. Henry wasn’t sure why he’d been chosen to use this gift with Blue and Gansey. It was difficult to forget, sometimes, that Henry had stepped onstage during their last act. 

He nearly suspected that Lynch had traded someone else in for him, gift-wise, Henry a last-second substitution. Everyone seemed to be missing someone, but Henry couldn’t think of anyone they’d all known and lost other than possibly Kavinsky, and he couldn’t see Blue mourning for that guy. He knew Blue had lost one of her mothers; he didn’t pry. 

Lynch had probably only talked to a total of ten human beings in his entire life. Fewer, since he’d dropped out: Henry couldn’t imagine who Lynch might even know well enough to even half-include. Henry couldn’t see Parrish being interested in the sort of low-fi road trip the Impossible Pig suggested. When Pigs Fly, maybe. 

The three of them hadn't left the day they had discovered the Dream Pig. There were parents to assuage. Their first stop was supposed to be in D.C. Gansey had promised to make an appearance before his parents, before they formally approved his gap year road trip. 

Henry was under the impression this would consist of last-minute attempts to bully Gansey into an internship, instead of meandering across the country, and possibly to vet his companions: Blue as a girlfriend, of course, and Henry as a potentially terrible influence. Henry thought they were rather underestimating Blue.

Henry's mother called, as well. It went better than he had expected. She very nearly encouraged his taking a year to himself, as long as he was still planning on college. Which of course he was, so that was settled. 

Blue was another issue. She slept over in Gansey’s living-room bed and then argued with her mothers, though it wasn’t clear to Henry about what. It seemed less to be about anything in particular and more about the particular nature of her family. 

Henry carefully kept to his own room on the evenings she was there, even when Gansey had Henry’s pizza order delivered or Blue invited him to watch a movie. 

Parrish and Lynch were in and out, engaged in some custody battle of attrition — something to do with Parrish's rapidly approaching departure for Harvard, where Henry would be joining him in a year, or possibly to do with Opal — which Henry, in his opinion wisely, kept his nose out of. They kept to themselves, or at the very least, didn't involve Henry. 

And of course there were the usual road trip checklist of routes to plan and packing to do. Blue insisted on splitting hotel costs evenly, and refused to listen to reason: the fact that they would be spared gas expenses due to her car was no object to Blue. So Henry asked RoboBee to plot the location of any hotel, motel, bed & breakfast, inn, or overnight parking lot that charged less than fifty dollars a night, just so he’d have it on hand. Gansey made list after list — places to go, things to see, what to pack. 

Henry was quite capable of packing for himself: enough clothes for a week plus layers, two weeks of underwear, his usual sensible packing list. Plus a few extras suggested by RoboBee: a roll of quarters tucked into his toiletry bag in case of laundry emergencies, nail polish and face masks. An extra EpiPen for Gansey. A few blank journals, in case Gansey wanted to take notes. A polaroid camera and film, in case Blue wanted to take pictures. It took Gansey and Blue longer to wrap things up, to solidify their plans. But Henry was happy enough waiting. 

&&&

Unwilling to spend the full expanse of his days at echoing Monmouth, not entirely welcome at the Barns, and yet no longer someone who could be left out wholesale, Henry often found himself abandoned at Blue’s house with Parrish and Gansey and the goat girl. Blue was never home: she spent her afternoons learning to drive stick, with Lynch's so-called help. 

She had been working up to the Dream Pig, on borrowed cars: Niall Lynch’s beemer, Gansey’s Camaro, once or twice Parrish’s abomination. Henry left his Fisker in the lot: Blue could drive it if she wanted to, of course, but he wanted Lynch nowhere near it. 

Henry could hardly imagine marvelous and sensible Blue driving the way Lynch did, but the imagining distracted him as thoroughly as it seemed to delight Gansey.

Henry very nearly felt at home, at Fox Way. It was not his place and these were not his people, but if he made himself quiet and unobtrusive, he was tolerated with a minimum of snorting. He drank an auntie's tea and made conversation while the goat girl rampaged outside. He wanted Blue's family to like him, and carefully didn't think about why.

Parrish — Adam, now, Henry had been formally invited to call him that — and Gansey would often retreat into what in an ordinarily furnished house would be the dining room, or perhaps living room, in order to determine what Gansey's resurrection meant. They had been scrying over this all year, and had yet to find satisfactory results, but Adam was nothing if not determined, Henry could give him that much.

Henry would watch through the doorway, warm mug of tea pressed into his palms, as Adam performed arcane rituals: burning unusual herbs or flipping cards or unselfconsciously holding Gansey's hands while he stared into an empty plastic tub full of a dark, still liquid.

The fact that the tub was a recycled margarine container, and that Henry had watched Adam fill it with water and the dregs of a soured bottle of six dollar pinot (“for the color,” Parrish had said, stiffly, like that was some sort of explanation) only ten minutes beforehand, didn't seem to matter to the ritual.

Henry sent RoboBee into the room to investigate when both of them had gone still and staring. It flew in a silent, solitary loop around their heads before returning to his shoulder. When it landed, Henry's phone buzzed.

_i can't believe it's not butter!_ the screen proclaimed.

Suddenly, Adam's whole body gave an abortive jerk and the tub tipped over, untouched. Adam’s hands were still fastened to Gansey’s. 

Henry was watching from a distance, two rooms away, but it struck him that there was something alien to Adam’s eyes, that his face was something other. Henry felt a shiver, a thousand insect-small legs tickling up his spine. He could feel something watching him, though Adam's glittering eyes were fixed on the spilled wine.

Gansey pulled his hands away with a visible, full-body blink, the same brief shudder of grounding himself in his skin that Henry had seen a hundred times by then — at Raven Day, after Gansey’s death, whenever historical discussion or reading in English class jolted Gansey out of the current time, after Gansey had shuddered apart under stress and needed to pull himself together. Even from behind and thirty feet away, Henry recognized the fluffy shake of his hair, Gansey’s resolute shoulders. 

There was a loud clatter from the cabinets behind Henry. He turned over his shoulder, and then decided the source of the clatter was beyond his capabilities. 

When he glanced back at the living room, Adam’s face was dusty and human again, his hand braced comfortingly on Gansey’s shoulder. The two of them were bent together, their hair nearly touching. 

“Opal Lynch,” Calla’s voice bellowed directly into Henry’s ear. Henry winced, and turned around. Opal was standing on top of the microwave she’d dragged out onto the counter, her hand guiltily frozen reaching up to top shelf of the china cabinet. Her other hand clutched a piece of pyrex bakeware with a neat half-moon bite taken out of the handle. 

Henry felt like he probably should have prevented this. Orla came thundering down the stairs at a run and slid into the kitchen on socked feet, obviously there to watch chaos unfold.

“Get down from there,” Calla said. Her voice was all the more menacing for its calm. Henry attempted to shrink into his seat. 

Opal chattered something in her incomprehensible dream language, and sulkily fished a tarnished silver teaspoon out of her pinafore. She stomped her foot and flicked the spoon at Calla. Henry winced; he was fairly sure her hoof had dented the microwave. Orla was grinning. 

Calla fished the spoon out of the air. “Don’t you start with me,” she said, grasping Opal around the waist and simply hauling her down. Henry was impressed: Opal was significantly heavier than she looked. 

Opal shrieked and flailed, dropping the Pyrex on the counter. It didn’t shatter, to Henry’s intense and possibly-misguided relief. 

“What did I tell you was going to happen to little goats who ate my dishes?” Calla asked. 

Opal’s expression told Henry that only bad things happened to little goats who ate Calla’s dishes.

“Well?” Calla said, setting Opal down on the edge of the kitchen table. Opal kicked her feet threateningly, but didn’t quite dare to let them collide with Calla. Sensible girl. 

Orla was standing worryingly close to Henry’s chair. He stood up abruptly and edged around the table to pour the dregs of his tea into the sink.

“Capripede discessa excocta est,” Opal said, grudging and mulish. “In ius.” 

“That’s right,” Calla said. “But in English, it’s rude to talk when not everyone can understand.” 

Opal was spared the recitation of her punishment, however, by the sound of the front door opening. At first Henry thought the commotion in the kitchen had driven Adam and Gansey to do their magic outside the house, but then he heard Blue.

“We’re back,” she cried. “A police car tried to give us a ticket but I drove really fast and we lost him!”

Henry poked his head out the doorway. Ronan made eye contact with Henry and rolled his eyes. Behind Blue’s back, he shook his head slightly, and then mimed writing a check. Henry had to duck back into the kitchen to hide his smile.

When Henry turned around, Orla was standing directly in front of him. He manfully bit back a squeak; she peered down her nose at him as if she’d heard it anyway, before looking back at the group in the front room. Henry, relieved not to be the sole subject of her focus, followed her gaze. 

The four of them were a closed circuit, all their energy directed into lighting each other up. If Henry hadn’t already known which way they were partnered off, he would have been hard-pressed to guess. 

Blue, flushed with triumph, had her shoulder pressed into Ronan’s arm and her gaze flitting between Adam’s fond and Gansey’s devoted face. Blue and Ronan looked like siblings: a matched set, for all their differences. Henry couldn’t tell which of them Gansey was gazing at like they’d hung the moon. 

Ronan ruffled Blue’s hair, jostling her hair clips, and cast a look so proprietary at Gansey and Adam that Henry felt impolite seeing it. Adam’s eyes were glittering again, this time with something far more mundane than the unearthly sparkle that had lit them earlier. 

Henry uneasily remembered that Parrish had been rumored to be going with the mean Nino’s girl sometime last spring. He’d ignored it as talk, of course, but —

“Don’t worry,” Orla murmured, for his ears only. “They’re just friends.” 

Henry’s entire being snapped to attention and strained to ask _who_ , but he caught the question before it slipped past his teeth. He clicked his mouth shut. Orla cackled, and Henry allowed himself a single uncharitable moment in which to contemplate how intensely he detested psychics.

Opal, ever a blessing and a distraction, finally flung herself down off the table with a scrape of hooves over linoleum. “Kerah!” she cried, throwing an elbow into Orla’s side as she pushed her way out of the kitchen. 

Ronan turned his attention away from his friends and eyed Opal expectantly as she careened through the reading room and flung her way into his arms. He grunted, staggered back two steps, and dropped her. She didn’t seem to mind. Henry drifted down the hallway as nonchalantly as possible, both to join them and to avoid Orla: hands jammed in his pockets and RoboBee buzzing a foot away from his head. 

“Were you polite?” Ronan demanded. 

“Eamus domum!” Opal said, just as rudely. Even Henry’s poor Latin could translate that. _Let’s go home_

“English,” Ronan said, scowling. 

Opal scowled back. “The witches said they were going to chop me up into a stew and gobble me up!” she insisted. 

Ronan nodded. “You already knew that’s what happens to goats who misbehave in a witch’s house,” he said, with the air of a man whose practical advice has been foolishly ignored. 

Opal, mistrustful, peered up at Blue for confirmation. Blue nodded, as gravely as possible. 

Henry could tell that Blue was biting down hard on the inside of her cheek to prevent a smile. That must be an obvious tell of hers, or possibly a normal thing for friends to notice about each other, and certainly not evidence that he’d spent too long watching Blue’s face. He looked away.

Opal scowled and ducked her face. “Take me home,” she insisted, tugging at Ronan’s leather bracelets, and then, filled with a burst of childish cunning: “Henry broke the microwave!” 

Ronan tilted his head back and laughed and laughed. 

&&

That was the first day Blue had driven the Dream Pig; apparently it had gone quite well, with no complications. Henry, of course, had had his bag packed for nearly a week, but quite suddenly Blue and Gansey were flinging themselves about Monmouth in last-minute attempts to ensure that they had everything they’d need and that it would all fit into the car. 

Henry had expected Gansey to be the worst offender, space-wise, but Gansey was a traveler; he knew how to pack light. Blue was the overpacker whose things filled the trunk around Henry and Gansey’s bags, and spilled into the corners of the back seat. 

And then there was nothing left to be done. Henry looked at Blue and Gansey, as they looked at him and at each other, and felt the raw joy of doing something _new_ bubbling up in his chest. He could see — he could tell — that they felt it too. 

They left bright and early the next morning, after a surprisingly large group breakfast at Fox Way. Goodbyes were strained. Henry received a polite nod from Adam, and glowering stares from Opal and Blue’s mothers. Lynch, of all things, shook his hand.

Everyone else was more effusive. Opal clung to Adam’s leg except when she briefly let Blue swing her around. Blue’s mothers and cousins had likely said the majority of goodbyes the previous night, but there was still a fair amount of fussing. 

Gansey and Lynch engaged in some awful exchange of arm-gripping embraces. Parrish and Gansey bumped knuckles, collected and respectable, and then broke instead for a real hug. Blue punched Lynch hard enough in the arm that his wince seemed genuine, and she tiptoed to embrace Parrish and murmur something into his good ear. 

Gansey leveraged the front seat down so Henry could climb over a large handbag full of what looked like yarn and fold himself into the backseat. Gansey climbed into shotgun, and Blue clambered into the driver’s seat. She gunned the engine, and they tore out of Henrietta.

&&

The Dream Pig broke down for the first time somewhere on the winding roads Gansey and Blue preferred to 81. They were only three hours out of Henrietta.

Things had been fine but suddenly Henry was struggling. 

The first thing they had done was stop for fancy coffee at the Starbucks two towns over, Blue’s treat. Gansey ordered something outrageous with whipped cream on top; this and Blue’s stubborn jaw meant that Henry followed his lead. He ordered his usual venti quad shot white chocolate mocha and made it a frappuccino, too, because why not. It was summer. 

He savored it; it tasted different knowing that it was a gift. Blue rolled down the window and flipped on the radio. They drove. 

After about an hour, Blue rolled the windows up as the radio station fuzzed out. Henry carefully deposited his empty coffee container in the footwell. He was wearing shorts that showed off his legs to good effect, but his calves and parts of his thighs were sticking to the seat.

They drove in silence. RoboBee buzzed against his neck. Henry checked his phone, and said, “Try 100.1.” 

Blue did; it was an oldies station out of Roanoke that should keep them going for a while.

Henry leaned back in the seat and dug each of his knees into the backs of the front seats. _Thunder only happens when it’s raining_ , the radio promised.

Gansey and Blue were speaking quietly in the front seat. Gansey was giving Blue directions; he wasn’t checking a map or his phone. Probably they hadn’t yet gotten far enough away from Henrietta for Gansey’s explorer’s knowledge of these long empty back roads to fade out. He had certainly spent enough weekends commuting home to subject himself to his parents' watchful eyes, over the last school years; he could probably navigate Henrietta to D.C. blindfolded by now.

A number of tolerable songs featuring heavy guitars and a male vocalist drifted past Henry as he stared out the window. They drove. Henry sat in the backseat, muffled away from their conversation in the front of the car, hemmed in on all side by Blue’s slowly expanding bags and the fact that he couldn’t put down a rear window. 

He very much felt like a third wheel. _Why must we separate my love?_ the radio crooned. 

Henry tried to lie down, maybe doze a little before they stopped in Lynchburg for lunch. Or maybe they were planning to make it all the way to Charlottesville before they stopped, Henry wasn’t sure; he just knew that the goal was to arrive at Gansey’s house anytime too late for supper but not so late they had to get a room for the night. 

He couldn’t lie down easily; Henry ended up wedging himself to sit sideways in the backseat, his seatbelt digging into his neck and his shoulder digging uncomfortably into another seatbelt. 

He sat like that, not quite drowsing and not quite simply, until the radio sang out, _thought she was my baby till she introduced me_. RoboBee buzzed warningly, but caffeine was still lingering in Henry’s system, because instead of calming himself down, Henry had a pang. His shoulder twinged, and the radio sang _yes i’m a lover baby not a fighter_ , and suddenly all Henry could think about was how uncomfortably curled tight he was in a small space. 

While he was attempting to order his thoughts, Blue let out a shout. He couldn’t pay much attention to it. The movement of the car changed, and slowed, and stopped. 

Blue flung the door open once the car was in park, and Gansey wasn’t far behind her. He put his seat down, and reached back to unbuckle Henry; it took the two of them some doing to untangle Henry enough to get him out of the car. 

Henry slumped to the ground, and rolled onto his back. He stared at the sky. He was fine. RoboBee flew in tight circles above his face and he tracked its flight. He had been in a car with Gansey and Blue, and no one was kidnapping him, and he _hated_ that song. 

Blue flung open the hood to the Dream Pig, and great billowing gouts of black smoke were spilling out. She was yelling, too; cursing Lynch’s name, demanding to know what was wrong with this Pig, frustration, complaining about the fact that she couldn't exactly call a tow truck to take a look at her magic car. 

Henry found it comforting. 

After a few seconds, Gansey had gone off to say something to Blue in an undertone, and then the two of them came back around the car to where Henry was, at that point, sitting upright in the grass, both hands behind his hips, leaning back to stare up at the sky some more. He was sure they’d talked about him. 

Gansey was saying, “It _burnt_ me when I tried to close the hood!” 

Blue said, “I know,” and then wandered over to Henry to nudge his bare calf with the clunky toe of her platform Mary Janes. 

Henry desperately wondered why Blue had decided to wear those shoes to drive. Or brought them on a road trip at all. His heart panged. 

She and Gansey continued to exchange pleasantries about the state of the car while Henry pulled himself upright by degrees. After a minute or so, Henry was fine, really, but he didn't say anything. He kept listening; he just enjoyed them going on. After a few minutes, he wondered where the smoke was coming from. RoboBee did a lazy loop around the Dream Pig’s open hood. 

_?????_ it sent. The instant he moved to check his phone, Gansey and Blue shifted from politely and companionably ignoring him, to peering at him with a slightly overwhelming intensity. 

“Thanks,” Henry finally got out. He was kneeling by the side of the road.

Gansey and Blue traded concerned glances. “Are you feeling better?” Blue asked, small-voiced and worried in a way that made Henry pull himself together.

He stood up to dust off his knees. “Just fine,” he said, in what he considered a fair attempt at his usual effusion.

Gansey was frowning. “You’re upset,” he said. Henry opened his mouth to protest, and reconsidered. Given the circumstances, it seemed foolish to deny it.

“Is there anything we can do?” Blue said, her shoulder pressed against Gansey’s bicep. They looked awful and mismatched and terribly fitting together, united against the world. Henry, briefly, wanted to be ill again. He wanted a lot of things. He did not want to be left behind to catch a cab back to Henrietta.

“It’s silly,” Henry said, and smiled as charmingly as he knew how. “I’ll be past it in no time.” 

“Do you think the car could tell you were upset?” Gansey said, distractedly inspecting the faint smoke rising from the Dream Pig’s empty engine block. “And that’s why it stalled out?” 

The three of them pondered this for a time: Gansey with genuine interest, Blue with great disdain because Gansey couldn’t be allowed to get too carried away with these things, Henry with the fervent relief of someone who would very much like a distraction from their own discomfort. 

It was one of those strange and magical Gansey statements, outrageous yet strangely believable when you thought about it.

Blue looked back at Henry, maybe to make sure he hadn’t retreated right back into his upset.

“Some Pig,” Henry said, in an attempt to reassure her. The words came out nearly automatically, out of his stash of carefully researched porcine American cultural references.

Blue let out a delighted laugh. Henry smiled at her, helplessly, and the Dream Pig stopped smoking. It took them a few minutes to notice, but when they did, it finally let Gansey put the hood back down.

“There you go,” Gansey said to Blue, his voice polite, but deferential rather than his usual tone of command. “Miss. She should be up and running for you now.”

Morbidly, Henry wondered if Adam Parrish impersonations were a stock scenario Gansey’s sexual repertoire.

Blue pinched the soft skin of Gansey’s inner arm, and tiptoed up to kiss his cheek. “Yeah, thanks, stud,” she said, still almost laughing, still with relief tucked into her dimple. Gansey’s ears went red. 

He started to stutter out a protest, but Blue just tugged him around the car to the passenger seat. She pushed the front seat down and Gansey in and over it.

“You’re in the back for now,” Blue said, firmly. “Henry’s riding shotgun.”

Both of their gazes flickered to him, like they were putting on a show and they wanted to know if they’d gotten their lines right. _Will this help? Is this what you wanted? Is it right?_

Henry could feel his emotions written all over his face, despite his best efforts. He swallowed. It would help, and it was what he wanted. He just wasn’t sure it was right, and he wasn’t sure they should be looking at him for approval.

But he ducked his head in a nod, and got in, and buckled up. Gansey buckled his seatbelt only over his waist, leaving the chest strap behind him and flapping against the backseat seat back. He leaned up between the front seats as Blue got the key in the ignition.

The engine turned over. “Some Pig, huh,” Blue said, catching Gansey’s eye in the rear mirror, Gansey nudging his forearm against Henry’s elbow on the console. The seats were too bulky for Gansey to really fit; his shoulders were too broad to squeeze between them. He leaned his chin on the shoulder of the driver’s seat and looked at Henry.

“It’s — remarkable? I’m afraid I can’t think of any of the other things —” Gansey said, apologetic despite himself. 

Henry said, “Terrific. Radiant,” and tried not to notice that he could smell Gansey’s hair. It smelled of the mint-rosemary shampoo Henry had bought him for his birthday, and also a little of the Dream Pig's mysterious exhaust. Terrific. Radiant. 

“Humble,” Blue said, and then, “Which means both ‘not proud’ and ‘low to the ground.’ I used to think it was a polite word for being short,” she said, and flicked a glance at Henry, someone to commiserate with over not having been born with a Gansey vocabulary. 

She was terrific and radiant, too. Henry didn’t think he could safely claim humble by any stretch of either definition. 

The Dream Pig started to sputter again when Gansey needed to stretch his legs and heed the call of nature by the side of the road. 

Gansey, of course, was too polite to mention this, so instead of being able to pull over before the matter became urgent, the Dream Pig stalled out along a hilly and poorly-paved rural road. They hadn’t seen a farmhouse in nearly a mile, so Gansey trudged up into the weeds by the dilapidated wooden fence and Blue and Henry politely averted their backs. 

They sat on the trunk, looking out into the little valley they’d just driven through. The low and sprouting fields were ringed in a mass of green trees, a bowl holding the sky. Blue looked up. 

“You know,” she said. “I’m not even annoyed that we stalled out here. Look…” and she trailed off. There was nothing special about the view. But Henry knew what she meant. He nudged his elbow against hers. She nudged back. Fluffy clouds crawled across the sky.

“Alright,” Gansey called. “Sorry about that, we can carry on if the Damn Pig’s cooperating.” He came to stand next to Blue and held his hands out for her hand sanitizer. Henry had his own ready and squirted a dollop into Gansey’s open palm. 

In an undertone, Gansey murmured, “Thank you, I’ll get back in the back if you’d like me to,” and Henry murmured back, “Only until we reach the next town, and then I want lunch,” because they were polite young men observing the formalities, and both of them were a little embarrassed. Henry could see the faint flush over the back of Gansey’s neck. _Terrific_ , Henry thought, weakly. _Radiant_. 

Blue said, loudly, “Don’t talk about Wilbur like that,” and affectionately patted the Some Pig’s tail lights as she stood to let herself back into the driver’s seat. 

The name stuck.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is... mostly setting up some plot threads and establishing some character dynamics. it was supposed to be like half as long as it got. notes on Facts contained w/in this chapter @ the end.  
> warnings for this chapter: henry being a raven boy, canon-typical ganseys (bad parenting, and also republicans, and therefore racism / classism)

The car broke down again about fifteen miles out of Charlottesville. No one would admit to any discontentment, so when it started running again, they trundled into town and stopped for lunch. 

They hadn’t made good time, of course. Blue had been anxious about the possibility of the Dream Pig — Wilbur — breaking down again, and stopped tearing down country roads to take a more sedate and wandering pace. Gansey glumly suggested taking the motorway, but it was clear that even the thought of driving on an interstate sapped Gansey’s spirit. 

Henry spent most of the drive trying to work out whether Wilbur had a CD drive or a tape deck or something even more old fashioned than that. RoboBee crawled over the dash, investigating. Henry was trying to set up a subroutine so that RoboBee would automatically replace a bad song on the radio with a song on a different station, or with music from his phone. 

He wasn’t having much luck, though, mostly because RoboBee had no earthly idea how anything other than Henry’s phone worked, nevermind Wilbur’s archaic AM/FM radio and tape deck. They were going to have to do some trial and error. 

Blue had purchased a prepaid flip-phone at RadioShack in the days before their departure, to mollify her mothers; she seemed to regard the idea of smartphones with vague clannish suspicion. Henry unilaterally refused to listen to whatever Gansey had on his phone; it was probably all Welsh ballads and the Beach Boys. So his phone and his music it was. Blue had decent taste in music, at least, and Gansey would learn to tolerate it. 

It was well past noon by the time they stopped. Henry wasn’t particularly hungry, still riding the edges of his earlier breakdown, but Blue’s stomach was growling. Gansey had resolutely chewed his way through the packets of freeze dried mango Henry had squirreled away in the backseat, and which he had been planning to ration. At least Gansey had handed slices up to the front seats. 

Charlottesville was alright, nice enough to look at but nothing particularly special, the same way most southern American cities tended to strike Henry. They drove through the edges of the city trying to find a neighborhood diner, somewhere with a small lot out back that sold Thai or pizza or gyros or southern comfort food. 

Henry wasn’t sure it would be a comfort to any of them, rather than a novelty — he wasn’t under the impression that either Gansey’s family or Blue’s were the sort who regularly cooked grits or fried chicken. Perhaps Blue’s, but he would have been deeply surprised if Blue ate it. 

He wasn’t a picky eater, though; as long as it was good, he didn’t care where they stopped. He left it to Gansey and Blue to bickeringly decide on a tiny Italian place. 

Blue said she hated Italian. Gansey was investigating the place on his phone, and told her that this was quite a _good_ Italian restaurant. Blue asked what that was supposed to mean. 

Henry let it wash over him, and pulled the restaurant up on his phone while they were arguing, and wondered if Gansey thought he could take Blue here in some way that wouldn’t involve her ever looking at the menu. It looked like the kind of small restaurant where the chef was very talented, half the prices were on request, and half the profit margins were laundered. 

“Fine,” Blue finally snapped, pulling into the tiny lot. “But you’re paying,” she added as she kicked the parking brake and ripped her keys out of the car. 

Gansey looked deeply pleased with himself. “Would you like me to order for you?” he said, and Henry nearly rolled his eyes. 

“You’d like that,” Blue said, sourly, but it wasn’t a denial. 

The restaurant really was tiny, something like six or eight tables squeezed into a front room the size of a postage stamp. There were a few businessmen grabbing a late working lunch, or just having a meeting, against the back wall. 

Blue looked around and seemed to realize that this was an _upscale_ restaurant, not another Nino’s-style carry-out business. 

Gansey had his hands in his pockets, casual and easy; he was rocking back and forth on his heels, patiently waiting until someone came to seat them. He looked handsomely regal and commanding, perhaps even more so than usual, at ease in a familiar environment, even though he’d never been here before. 

Henry’s clothes were a little dirt-stained from kneeling by the side of the road, and rolling the windows had wreaked havoc on his hair. He was going to have to work out a haircare routine that could withstand Wilbur’s busted AC. He felt rumpled, and ill at ease, but it was recoverable; he'd certainly managed dignity while worse-off, and it was nothing compared to Blue’s visible discomfort. 

Blue was wearing hand-me-down neon butterfly clips in her hair that had to be approaching their second decade of life, and her shirt looked like a deconstructed neon-pink fishing net. It was very flattering, especially paired with her dark purple shorts — Henry was personally deeply appreciative of her thin undershirt — but she was also wearing a choker necklace made out of soda tabs and her boots were dirty. 

Henry turned to Blue in an undertone, and said, “Bet you ten bucks they won’t seat us.” 

Blue stopped fidgeting with her necklace and put her hand in his. “Look at president cellphone,” she said. “They wouldn’t dare kick him out. I’ll take that bet.” 

Gansey was now negotiating with a portly man who had emerged from a backroom. Blue and Henry eyed them as the conversation progressed. Henry squeezed Blue’s hand and tried to let go, but she didn’t let him pull his hand away for a few interminable seconds. When she did, Gansey was looking over at them; Henry got his phone out and tried to act like he hadn’t held anyone’s hand in his life. 

The portly man from the back room came over. “So good to meet you all, such good young people,” he said, planting his meaty palms on Henry’s back and Blue’s shoulder. He steered them towards the table tucked into the window. 

Gansey was already pulling over a third chair. He settled into it as Blue and Henry sat across from each other. The man moved a third glass onto the table, and bustled off to bring them their menus. 

Blue gave Henry a speaking look. It said, _you owe me ten dollars_. Henry made a face at her while Gansey was accepting and distributing their menus. 

“Can I get you started with something to drink?” the man asked. He was obsequious. 

“We’ll take a look at the wine list,” Gansey said, and the man just nodded instead of asking for ID. In Henry’s experience, Americans were rarely so accommodating. Henry wondered if Gansey had greased his palm, another extension of the scandal Helen had spent so much time trying to quash: the Gansey family tendency towards bribery. The man scuttled away, yelling something into the kitchen in Italian. 

“We’re driving,” Blue said, sharply. The menus were huge; they obscured her from his sight entirely. Neither Henry nor Gansey could examine her face to parse her mood. 

“Of course,” Gansey said, in a reasonable tone nearly calculated to drive Blue to yet more towering heights of fury. “But I can’t just give the man the wine list back without even looking at it. We’re not going to drink.” 

Blue didn’t emerge from behind her menu. 

“Unless you’d like some?” Gansey asked Henry. 

“My fake’s in the car,” Henry said, which was true, and also an easy way out of the argument. 

“Your fake what?” Gansey said, an act of cluelessness that made Henry wonder if Gansey was, in fact, _looking_ for a fight. Henry kicked him under the table and Gansey made a soft pained noise. “Right,” he said. 

Blue’s menu descended. She was still scowling, but there was no longer a danger level attached to her expression. 

“I don’t know what any of this is,” Blue said. Henry glanced at the menu; it seemed like fairly standard Italian fare. Heavy on the carbs. Blue had worked at an Italian restaurant for nearly two and a half years by new, and Nino’s did pasta as well as pizza. 

Gansey had the same confused expression Henry could feel on his own face. Blue rolled her eyes, but Henry could tell she was embarrassed. Her accent was stronger than usual. 

“Y’think Nino’s serves —” and here Blue stumbled a little. “Serves _capellini alle vongole_?” 

“It’s not as though you can get clams in Henrietta,” Gansey said, reasonably. Blue glared. She always looked awfully like Ronan when she made that face; Gansey was visibly struggling not to look charmed. Blue could tell, and scowled harder. 

“They do a good penne vodka though,” Henry said, which wasn't quite a lie. Nothing Nino's made was good, but, relatively speaking, the penne vodka was tolerable. Blue glanced at him. She didn’t smile, but her scowl unscowled. Gansey, relieved, nudged Henry’s foot under the table in thanks. 

The table really wasn’t big enough for three. Henry had no idea where they were going to fit a third place setting. Blue said, grudgingly, “This place charges seventeen dollars for a salad.” 

“ _Do_ you want me to order for you?” Gansey said. 

The ensuing scuffle ended when the man came back out from the kitchen. Henry peered over Gansey’s shoulder; the businessmen who lunched were staring at them. No one came to take their orders. It was probably obvious that they needed another minute. 

“What are you in the mood for?” Henry asked Blue. 

“Meat,” Blue said, and bared her teeth at Gansey. 

Henry scanned his menu, and leaned over to tap something on Blue’s. “These scaloppini look good” 

“I hate mushrooms,” Blue said. Henry knew that wasn’t true; she ate mushrooms all the time at Fox Way at all hours of the day, including on toast for breakfast. 

Henry ordered a big plate of mussels and clams for the table, an appetizer to split. Blue tried to protest; she didn’t seem to like the thought of shellfish. Henry told her she didn’t have to eat any. More for him and Gansey, in that case. 

Gansey handed the wine list back to the man from the kitchen unopened; Blue did order the scaloppini with mushrooms. Gansey got some sort of pasta in cream sauce, heavy carbs. Henry ordered fish, branzino with mint-pesto sauce. 

They were going to be eating a ton of diner food over the next year, he suspected, in America’s land-locked middle. Meatloaf. Jello salads. Henry wanted decent food while he could get it. 

While they waited for their order they people-watched out the window. This area had a fair amount of foot traffic; it was a sunny day with a pleasant breeze, and people were enjoying the summer before the heat became unbearable. 

Gansey pointed out every dog he saw being walked, and Blue told him what breed they were. Henry joined in; it took Gansey nearly five full minutes to realize that none of the breeds Blue and Henry were listing existed, that they had been making them up. 

When he sputtered, “That is not a pygmy pouter!” Blue laughed, a sure sign that all was forgiven. Gansey’s outrage was forgotten, too. He smiled at her, helplessly. Henry had to look away. 

“My parents might like this place,” Gansey said, quietly. “If I’m going to be in Charlottesville more — more often. That’s why I took the wine menu.” 

Blue hummed, and Henry could hear her smiling. 

It really was a lovely day. Henry watched the wind rustling leaves, people’s hair, women’s skirts. How it pushed clouds across the sky. 

&&&

Lunch was wonderful. Blue helped herself to nearly half the mussels once she realized they were cooked, and Henry and Gansey let her. 

Henry tried some of Gansey’s pasta and Blue’s veal when they deposited bites onto his place. Both of them shared food easily, like that wasn’t a bizarrely intimate thing to do. He distributed some of his fish in return and then had to stop Gansey from stealing more once he’d finished his pasta. 

“It’s good,” Gansey said, mournfully, making longing eyes at Henry’s plate. 

Blue said, “That’s why he ordered it.” 

“Yes,” Henry agreed, and had another bite. 

Gansey sulked right up until they were presented with dessert menus, at which point he ordered espressos all around, and a double order of panna cotta with three spoons, and handed over his credit card for the cheque. 

Blue wrinkled her nose up after one taste of her espresso, and pushed it across the table to Henry. Gansey’s was decaf. Henry didn’t see the point. 

He was a little overwhelmed emotionally. With — fondness, for them both. He could call it fondness. That was an acceptable emotion. 

“It’s only two thirty,” Henry said, sipping from Blue’s tiny cup. “And we’re only a couple hours out. Are you sure we shouldn’t have dinner with your parents?” 

Gansey shook his head. “I told them we’d be getting in late,” he said. “They won’t have anything ready for guests. I think my mom is planning brunch for tomorrow.” 

“What is there to do in Charlottesville?” Henry asked RoboBee. 

Blue was looking back into the restaurant, waiting for dessert. 

“Aren’t we pretty close to UVA?” Blue asked. Her tone was measured and carefully casual. 

Gansey made an affirmative noise. 

“Oh,” Henry said. His phone buzzed. RoboBee’s list of things to do around Charlottesville looked dismal. Henry wouldn’t go to Monticello if someone paid him, and he’d had enough of the Virginia mountain scenery at Aglionby. 

“I wouldn’t mind looking at the campus,” Blue said slowly. “Since we’re here.” 

Gansey said, “My thinking exactly,” and they smiled at each other, secretive and delighted. 

Henry’s stomach swooped. He only rarely felt excluded by Blue and Gansey; he was accustomed to being their frequent third wheel and good friend. Usually he could keep in mind that they were extraordinarily good friends, and be happy with that. But occasionally he became acutely aware that he _was_ third-wheeling, a hanger-on; it was always unpleasant. 

He wasn’t sure he was supposed to know this, but Gansey had been talking about UVA off-handedly for months; he wouldn’t have applied yet, as he hadn’t managed to finish any of his applications off in time after his untimely demise and resurrection. But he was clearly thinking about it; he’d dropped mentions of its research programs, libraries, convenient location, rowing team, all of it, into conversation for months, like he didn’t know he was doing it. His parents wouldn’t approve, Henry was sure, but Gansey had never been good at hiding his enthusiasms, at planning secretly. 

Blue was close-mouthed about university, at least around Henry, and, he suspected, around Adam, as both of them were Harvard-bound. Henry had assumed that she might have discussed her rather more limited options with her family, or with Ronan, but somehow it hadn’t occurred to him that of course she would have talked to her boyfriend about her future, about their future together. That they might be planning to end up in the same place. 

That this trip was a brief detour with a friend they’d forget about by thirty; that they were planning to settle into a serious college relationship and get engaged sophomore year and married in whatever campus chapel there was the summer they graduated, reserving the space years in advance. Or whatever it was straight high school sweethearts did. 

Henry would be away in Boston with Parrish, who didn’t like him much, and Blue and Gansey would slowly lose touch. He was being maudlin, and he knew it, but he gave himself a few seconds to wallow nonetheless. 

Dessert came out of the kitchen with the bill. Henry fidgeted with the tiny handle of his empty espresso cup and watched Gansey’s strong fingers gripping the restaurant’s cheap pen. Gansey tipped twenty percent, and then divided the panna cotta into neat thirds with his teaspoon. Blue hadn’t tried it before, and seemed to like it; Henry let her demolish his third as well. 

He checked his watch again. “I want to try and get some tapes for the car,” Henry said. “I think I saw a record store somewhere downtown as we were driving over. If you guys wanna grab a campus tour or something.” 

“They won’t have tours this early in the summer,” Gansey said automatically, unable to stop himself from offering a correction. Blue must have nudged him, because he cleared his throat, and said, “but — yes, alright.” 

&&&

Henry did find a thrift record store, dimly lit and hazy. RoboBee made lazy circles in the air, mimicking the ragged ceiling fan.

Henry had to duck to avoid it; the ceilings were low. It was barely moving the air, and it was swinging a little, unsteady over the boxes and shelves and racks of tapes and records and jewelry candelabras hung with paste necklaces and earrings. 

A bored clerk flipped through a magazine at the front desk, and there was no video surveillance; it was that sort of place. Henry assumed most of its business came from customers at the smoke shop next door. 

They were having an end of the year sale: as many cassettes as he could fit into a paper lunch bag for fifteen dollars. Henry whiled away an enjoyable half-hour filling four bags with whatever he could find. He slid a set of dark-blue enamel earrings that would look nice with Blue’s coloring into his pocket. The clerk didn’t look up, so as Henry browsed, he added a choker for Blue and someone’s 1995 class ring for Gansey, who had been born that year. 

The store really had a decent selection; Henry almost felt bad stealing. He put the earrings back; Blue didn’t have her ears pierced anyway. Really he ought to have put the class ring back, too, given how likely Gansey would be to wear it, but it would look so good on Gansey’s broad hand if he ever _did_ wear it that Henry didn’t have the heart. 

He bought Benny Goodman, which Gansey sometimes left on when he was studying, and then half a dozen other tapes with labels like JAZZ CLASSICS or 1940s STANDARDS, and a Cranberries cassette and a like-new copy of The Black Parade. He threw half the Beatles’ back catalogue into a bag for Gansey, and a handful of Beach Boys tapes, and some Enya and Steve Martin that might remind Blue of home. He wasn’t sure if the Steve Martin tape was music or a comedy tape. 

But the main focus of his tape quest was his own music. He bought the Eurythmics and someone’s handmade mixtape of 80s one-hit wonders and all the Fleetwood Mac and Madonna he could find. He even grabbed some hair metal, the kind that brought to mind the clientele at Boyd’s Automotive, and that Adam could be counted on to hum along to if he was concentrating on something else while it played. 

He brought his bags up to the front and asked the cashier if he could leave them there while he perused the shop’s thrift section. 

“Whatever,” the clerk said. Henry took that as a yes. The store was otherwise deserted. 

The thrift section was a tiny closet-shaped nook off the main store crammed full with half a dozen battered leather suitcases and two racks of presumably mothball-scented clothes. 

Nothing on the racks was Henry’s size, but he found two floaty sundresses designed for someone with Blue’s elfin proportions; one had a torn strap and the other was only a little motheaten at the hem. The ripped one also had a mysterious stain on the inside lining, so Henry put it back. The motheaten one was otherwise intact. Henry checked for a price. There was a paper tag attached to the label in the back with a yellow $30 sticker on it. 

Henry peeled it off, and switched it with a green $10 sticker off a pair of jean shorts, before going to the front to pay. 

The clerk rung him up for the ring and the choker, which Henry had guiltily fished out of his pocket, and his tapes, and the dress for Blue, and then shoved everything into a large paper bag. Henry paid cash, smiling sunnily at the clerk all the while. 

He took his bag and went outside, RoboBee floating three feet above his head. He shook back his sleeve to check his watch; it was only four. He had to kill another two hours, to give Gansey and Blue some privacy, before they had to set out for DC. He went into a local coffee shop where the workers all had facial hair and gauged ears, and bought a slice of vegan gluten-free chocolate cake, and ate it, but that only took ten minutes. He took a selfie and texted it to the Litchfield House groupme, and then a mustachioed man wearing a beanie and an apron came over and cleared his throat and Henry’s table, so Henry left. 

He was restless. Henry imagined Blue and Gansey holding hands and wandering the UVA campus, smiling and pointing at things and being picturesque, and felt so jealous it almost made him sick. He went into Urban Outfitters, and thought about how neither Blue nor Gansey would be caught dead in this store as he stole a pair of glittering dangly earrings and a pair of novelty socks with bees on them and a string of battery-powered fairy lights and a palm-sized book of sex coupons to embarrass Gansey with. 

Henry was sorting through a rack of distressed fashion overalls and considering actually making a purchase, ruminating on whether Lynch or Parrish would ever shop at a place like this, wondering whether he should go back and investigate the faux-crocodile suitcase he’d seen at the thrift store so Blue actually had somewhere decent to put her things instead of letting them spill out of bags all over the car, when his phone rang. 

“Hello?” he said, picking up without looking who was on the line. 

“Henry!” Blue exclaimed. Henry glanced at the screen; she was using Gansey’s phone. 

“Hey, lady,” Henry said. The signal wasn’t great; Blue sounded very far away. 

“Where are you!” Blue said, and it was only technically a question. 

“Stress shopping,” Henry said. He hadn’t realized that was true until he said it out loud. 

“Okay, well,” Blue said. “Finish up and come meet us at — where are we?” 

Gansey’s voice piped up across the line. Blue repeated him: “Just come up the main street, the campus is hard to miss!” 

“I bought you a dress,” Henry said. He was walking out of the shop already. The alarm didn’t go off as he left. “Do you need a suitcase for your stuff for the car?” 

Blue didn’t say anything. “I found a thrift store,” Henry clarified, and felt like Gansey. “It was cheap. I got a ton of tapes for the car, I have to find an ATM.” 

“It’s fine,” Blue said. “I don’t need a suitcase.” She sounded amused. “We can find an ATM on the drive out. We parked out by the campus, come meet us there and we can put our stuff in the car.” 

And then she hung up. Henry said, “RoboBee, find Richardman,” and followed after it as it drifted ahead. 

&&&

It was a pleasant walk but Henry hated it. It was hot enough that walking was enough to build up a sweat, and the breeze was mild enough that he was constantly aware of it. His hair was deflating. 

He was anxious, Henry realized. He didn’t like this. He was looking forward to spending more time with Blue and Gansey, but he wasn’t looking forward to being trapped with them, in a car that broke down when his emotions acted up. He disliked jealousy; he hadn’t had much cause to feel it before, especially when it came to matters of friendship. Of affection. 

He wondered if he should call off the trip, to let Blue and Gansey make it a couples retreat, and then wondered if that would be selfish, prioritizing his own useless emotions over how hurt Blue and Gansey would be if he did that. Then he thought about whether his presence would turn the trip into a grinding drag of breakdowns. Gansey always seemed quite at ease on the side of the road. Henry, for his part, wasn’t. 

He caught sight of Wilbur’s orange paint job and waved an arm above his head. Blue waved back. 

Blue and Gansey had found street parking for the Dream Pig, for Wilbur, a block away from the school. Gansey was holding a plastic bag with the UVA logo on it. The trunk was popped. 

“Hello hello,” Henry said, approaching. RoboBee alighted on Blue’s hair clips. “What’d you get?” 

Gansey showed Henry what was in the bag; a car blanket with the UVA logo on it. A sweatshirt, probably for Blue to shred. Possibly also a scarf or another shirt, buried in the bag’s depths. 

“Blue bought them,” Gansey said, in his own defense. “Well. I bought the blanket.” 

“They suckered you good, huh,” Henry said to Blue, who made a face. Adam had complained at length about how overpriced college branded items were, but he’d still come back from his and Henry's make-up Visitas trip with a Harvard hoodie. Blue had given him unbelievable amounts of crap about it, by way of congratulation. 

Henry unzipped his suitcase and rested his shopping bag on the rim of the trunk. He tossed the dress over to Blue and handed the bags of tapes to Gansey; the rest of his purchases went into a side pocket of his duffel. 

“Oh,” Blue said. “This is really nice, Henry.” 

Her voice was strange. Henry looked up at her; she was touching the dress like it wasn’t something Henry had grabbed on impulse at a thrift store, like it was a real and thoughtful gift. It made Henry feel squirmy. Gansey was depositing the tapes into Wilbur’s glove compartment. 

Both Blue and Gansey were distracted, which meant Henry was allowed to give Gansey a once-over. Henry was only allowed to look at Gansey once a day, and he had to keep it under a minute. There hadn’t always been rules; it had started as a defense mechanism when Cheng2 had told him he’d spent a whole period staring across the classroom at Gansey’s head during Political Shakespeare sometime early junior year. Cheng2 had been joking, but Henry’s interest in Gansey had initially been potentially dangerous, and was currently impolitic. Either way, it was better to conceal it. 

Henry didn’t think about Gansey like that, anyway, though. Well, at least he tried not to. He tried not to think about either of them like that, but he couldn’t control his thoughts. He and Blue had discussed this right at the beginning of their acquaintance, with casually practiced bluntness borne of a long-suffering awareness of Aglionby boys. She was with Gansey, and that was that; he wasn’t to get any ideas. As a result Henry rather felt they had an understanding, and any inconvenient attractions could therefore be safely ignored. 

Henry couldn’t imagine having a conversation like that with Gansey. Not just because the thought was mortifying, but because Henry couldn’t stand the thought that he might be transparent enough that Gansey might notice, in the first place, or the thought of being transparent in a _way_ where Gansey wouldn't trust him to keep his hands to himself, to feel a talk like that was necessary. 

So, at the very least, he didn’t think about Gansey like that while actually physically in his presence; that could only lead to disaster. 

Gansey was his friend, the same way Blue was. More importantly, Gansey was straight, and Henry wasn’t going to be the one to make it weird. But he let himself look, sometimes, really look; a rare opportunity to drink in everything about Gansey, greedy and eager. 

This was the only way he let himself picture Gansey: in snapshots, to tuck them away in his mind where they wouldn’t get in the way of their friendship. The soft curling hair at the nape of his neck, his broad shoulders straining the fabric of his polo shirts, the fractious tension in his wrists and ankles when he was working himself up into a temper. How full his lips were. The tan lines Gansey had around his shorts and shoes and sleeves. The elegant dip of Gansey’s throat into his polo collar. The furled shells of his ears. His body language had changed since his resurrection, become looser and easier, his movements less jerky. Henry wanted to learn all of him. He contented himself with this. 

At the moment, Henry was contenting himself with the sight of Gansey bending into the car to tuck away the cassette tapes. 

Gansey’s shirt was tucked in, and he was wearing a braided leather belt. His shorts clung to his ass and thighs where he had one knee up on the front seat. His leg hair was light enough to catch the sunlight. 

Henry looked away, to help Blue finish packing their things away and to close up the trunk. He caught her checking the tag, and she flushed a little but didn't look otherwise embarrassed. Fair game, Henry supposed, surrounded by rich boys as she was. She thanked him again for the dress. 

“This was really sweet, Henry,” Blue said. 

Henry glanced back at Gansey. He was feeding the meter. It seemed like they’d be staying here for a while. Henry longed for air conditioning. The back of his neck was prickling with sweat. 

“I’m glad you like it,” Henry said. 

&&&

Henry’s shoes weren’t designed to be walked in; his feet started aching twenty minutes into their exploration of the campus. Blue held Gansey’s hand and tolerantly let him talk about winding walls and historical architecture. When Gansey started gesturing with his hands, she let go of his hand and fell back to walk next to Henry. 

Gansey wasn’t quite walking backwards, but it was close. “Is he a tour guide or something?” Henry asked her, low-voiced. Blue laughed, and bumped her elbow against Henry’s. He took his hand out of his pocket so he could bump her back. 

Blue took his hand. Henry tried not to trip over his feet. Gansey didn’t react, either, just kept pointing at things and talking about Thomas Jefferson. Henry couldn’t care less. The heat was curling Gansey’s hair into chestnut waves, and the breeze was ruffling it over his forehead. 

The campus was enormous. They’d walked for an hour and they still had to walk all the way back to the car. 

Henry said, “You’re gonna have to buy a bike,” to Gansey. 

Henry had interrupted him halfway through a lecture on the history of the campus chapel. Henry actively refused to let himself picture Blue and Gansey’s wedding photos; that had been an absurd thought. Blue would never get married in a church. 

“What?” Gansey said. 

“When you come here,” Henry said, and squeezed Blue’s hand. “You’re gonna need a bike.” 

Blue squeezed Henry’s hand back. 

“Oh,” Gansey said, and touched his thumb to his lower lip to bite back a smile. 

Henry wanted to say, _You know you can give me the rest of the tour when I visit you_ , but lately he was having a hard time getting words like that out, even when he knew what he wanted to say. 

&&&

Henry didn’t escape the tour. They took a meandering loop through the rest of campus back to where Wilbur was parked. It was six thirty by the time they loaded themselves back into the car. 

Charlottesville was only about two hours out of D.C. — maybe three, depending on traffic, though most cars would be heading out of the city late at night, rather than driving in. Four, if they stayed off highways altogether and kept their speed under fifty, and got dinner, and allowed twenty minutes for the car to break down at least once. 

They were aiming to arrive at the Ganseys’ sometime between nine and ten. Gansey spent the drive pontificating. Their plans for the summer; how he was going to call Ronan and complain if there was any chance that would do any good, no matter how impolite it might be to complain about a gift. How the car’s finicky nature would affect their travel. 

The three of them had laid out a few vague routes around the country: north over the summer and then back to the south over the winter, or traveling north and south up the odd highways, from 95 to 1 and then back and forth east-west over the evens. 

They’d had a number of possible plans, charted out on half a dozen collapsible maps, all of which were now toast; they were going to have to follow their hearts. Quite literally. 

Gansey said, or perhaps proclaimed, “And anyway, it doesn’t seem safe, does it? If Wilbur,” and the idea of referring to a car by name didn’t rest easily in his mouth, “is, er, _temperamental_ , and we’re traveling at high speeds —” 

Blue agreed. “We’d better all be in high spirits before we take the —” 

“Highway?” Gansey finished, grinning madly. His hands sketched out a sinuous shape. A highway, or possibly some sort of bridge, or maybe a snake. 

Blue caught Henry’s eye in the rear mirror. She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. 

&&&

They pulled through a small town. Henry hadn’t thought about how much he relied on the highway to tell him where he was, to list off names town by town as he passed through them, until he was traveling off of it. There was a McDonalds; they parked in the lot and went inside to order. 

Gansey ordered a meal combo off the menu, squinting up at the sign. He treated this like a small adventure, like a special treat. Henry ordered a chicken salad. Blue made a face at them like she was embarrassed and ordered off the dollar menu. Henry was nearly offended. He ordered drunk food at McDonalds all the time; he wasn’t being a raven boy just because he wanted a salad. 

They ate. Children attached to a tired-looking woman ran shrieking across the seating area, despite the presence of a playroom specifically for that purpose. Gansey winced. Henry thought, ruthlessly, that Gansey had better get used to this. America wasn’t all lightning-struck boys and ley lines and sleeping magic and camping out under the stars. Mostly it was like this. 

&&&

They were all more subdued after leaving the McDonalds. Well, Blue and Gansey were. Most likely they were dreading the Ganseys. Henry didn’t mind them. 

Wilbur’s engine didn’t give out, fortunately, but it choked and coughed the rest of the way into DC. The closer they got to the Ganseys’ neighborhood, the more menacing the noises became. 

Blue carefully pulled up to the Gansey’s property and leaned out the window to punch in the gate code. The gate swung open. 

The floodlights turned on as they drove in. Blue parked in the gravel drive, in front of the front door, and turned the car off. Gansey made a small protesting noise. Blue pulled the keys out of Wilbur and got out. Her feet crunched the gravel. Gansey followed her, and Henry climbed out after them. 

Blue hauled a purse out of the trunk; Gansey handed Henry’s bag to him. 

“Alright,” Blue said, her feet planted in the gravel like a general preparing for battle. “Let’s do this.” 

&&&

They didn’t go in through the front. Henry had never been to this house; apparently there was a side door, accessible through the rose garden, that was the preferred entrance. Gansey had been visiting his parents often over the last school year, and Blue had gone with him once or twice. She must remember; she was leading the charge. 

They took their shoes off by the back door. Gansey was barefoot beneath his Top Siders. Henry could feel the day wearing on him. He wanted to shower. He wanted to go to sleep. 

Mrs. Gansey was wearing heels in the house. Henry heard her coming over the kitchen tile. 

“Dickie,” she said, and pressed his shoulder. “Your father’s in bed. We saw you pull in.” 

“Thank you for having us,” Blue said, too soon and too interruptive. She held out her hand. Mrs. Gansey took it, seemingly on autopilot. 

“Of course, dear,” Mrs. Gansey said, and nodded at Henry. “Henry. So good to see you.” And then she turned back to Blue: “Have you been driving Dickie’s car?” 

Gansey jumped in. “I was tired,” he said. “I asked her to take over at the wheel so we could make it out here without having to stop somewhere else for the night.” 

Mrs. Gansey scrutinized him. 

Gansey wasn’t normally a good liar and yet he was remarkably gifted at lying to his parents. Henry wondered how he’d gotten so good at it and felt a vague pang. He wished he could touch Gansey to comfort him. Blue took Gansey’s hand. Henry was grateful. 

“Well,” Mrs. Gansey said. “Just be safe. You’re the only insured driver on that car, so try to be sensible about it.” 

Henry wondered in morbid fascination if Blue would inform Mrs. Gansey that this was a smudged carbon-copy of Gansey’s car. She didn’t, though. She said, “Of course.” 

“Come in,” Mrs. Gansey said, then, “come in, it’s late, you must be tired.” She led them through the open-plan kitchen and dining room into a formal sitting room and from there into a large open space with a curving staircase to a second-floor landing. 

Henry was fairly sure it was the foyer to the main entrance; he peeked out the window to confirm his suspicions. He could see Wilbur in the drive through the window. They walked through another few rooms, manicured sitting rooms designed for entertaining and not intended to be lived in. They stopped in a hallway with a narrow and unambitious staircase in it. 

“Helen’s out of town,” Mrs. Gansey said. “So it will just be us.” 

Henry wondered if this was a concession; if the relationship between Helen and Gansey was still deeply strained, as it had been that winter. If Helen and Blue got along. 

“Brunch will be ready at ten,” Mrs. Gansey said. 

“Great,” Blue said, syrupy. “It’ll be good to try and hit the road early.” 

“I’ll show them to their rooms,” Gansey said, hurriedly. 

“Of course,” his mother said, gracious as ever. “The yellow and green guest bedrooms have been aired out.” 

She bent to press a kiss to Gansey’s forehead. He didn’t bother to scrub her lipstick off. The door closed, politely, on the retreating click of Mrs. Gansey’s heels across the narrow stretches of hardwood between antique carpets. 

Blue was already digging through her bag for wet wipes. “Here,” she said, and applied one to Gansey’s forehead. 

“Thank you,” Gansey said, gravely, and Blue tiptoed to leave her own lipsticky mark on Gansey’s cheek. Mrs. Gansey’s had been a staid merlot. Blue’s was plum. 

Blue’s hand was pressed into Gansey’s chest, curled into the fabric of his polo shirt. They were very colorful, even in the mansion's half-light. Her chipped orange nails were a bright pop of contrast against today’s aquamarine. 

Henry looked away. 

Gansey pulled his gaze away from Blue and cleared his throat. 

“You’re in the yellow guest room,” he told Blue. “It’s across the wing. But you have your own bathroom.” 

“And I don’t?” Henry said, half-teasing. 

“Well,” Gansey said. “I suppose you could. But the green room’s right next to me, you might as well share mine.” 

Blue laughed. “You’re going to regret that,” she said, low and amused and knowing. 

&&&

Henry assumed Blue would be the one given the exclusive tour of Gansey’s room, though he wasn’t sure to what extent Gansey’s parents would be checking in on them. Instead, they carried their things up a lovely and imposing curved staircase and into a side wing. 

“This is my room,” Gansey said, propping open a plain door. 

It didn’t look anything like Gansey’s room. But perhaps that was the point. It looked like something out of a magazine. The bed had a canopy hung with maroon curtains. An artistically distressed chest sat at the foot of the bed. The furniture was all impersonal dark wood. There wasn’t even a bookcase. 

Gansey put down his overnight bag. “None of the clothes here fit me,” he said, apologetically. Henry wasn’t sure to whom he was apologizing. Maybe to Blue, for having enough clothes that he could have a full closet’s worth that didn’t fit him. Maybe just in general, for needing an overnight bag in his own house. “My mother won’t get rid of them yet. I’m not sure why.” 

Henry said, “It’s not as if you’re going to shrink back into them.” Gansey gave him a relieved smile. Blue’s lipstick creased into his dimple. 

“Oh my god,” Blue said, already nosing through Gansey’s closet, the doors flung open. It was impossible to parse her tone. “Henry, look at this, his pastel shorts have little whales on them.” 

Henry gave Gansey a sympathetic look — he wasn’t going to be hearing the end of this anytime soon — but went over to investigate, because he wanted to see. It looked like some of the clothes were formerly-Helen’s, since there were a half-dozen dresses tucked against the far wall of the closet. Henry wondered why the Ganseys would have moved her things in here too; probably Helen had taken more of her things with her, and this was just the a convenient place to store things their kids didn’t want anymore, since Gansey was hardly home. Or possibly — well, more likely — it was some sort of passive-aggressive snub. 

Henry bent close enough that he could smell Blue. The shorts were mint green, and they were covered by tiny embroidered whales. Blue was still marveling at them. 

Henry murmured, “There’s a lavender sweatervest three hangers over.” 

Blue tipped her head back and laughed. Her hair was brushing against Henry’s shoulder; he could nearly feel it through his shirt. Henry smiled, and then extended the smile over his shoulder to Gansey. 

“Can I raid your closet?” Blue asked. “Or just keep these.” 

“Anything,” Gansey said, easily. “Of course, Jane, you know that.” 

Blue was fully occupied sorting through Gansey’s things. Henry watched Gansey. He was moving a light cotton blanket from the bed to a hideously upholstered couch covered in throw pillows. 

Henry raised his eyebrows. 

“I can’t sleep in this bed,” Gansey said. “My parents just moved me in here when I moved most of my things out to Henrietta. And I’m hardly here, anyway.” Gansey moved to pick up what looked like a battered stuffed animal from his nightstand, but let his hand drop when Henry didn’t look away. 

“Anyway,” Gansey said. He sounded flustered. He looked at Blue, who by then had half a dozen articles of clothing hanging over one arm. “I just. Don’t sleep well alone.” 

Gansey frowned at whatever was on his nightstand; Henry could make out some sort of dark face, but the rest of it was a much-loved grey. 

“Okay,” Blue said. And then grandly: “Show me to my room.” 

“Wait,” Henry said. 

Both of them looked at him. Henry nearly quailed. 

“Blue should take the green room,” Henry said. “The one I’m supposed to take.” 

Neither of them said anything. Henry took a deep breath, and turned to Gansey. 

“Do you want me to stay here tonight?” Henry asked. “I could take the bed, if you’ll be on the couch. And Blue would just be in the next room over.” 

Gansey bit his lip. Gallantly, he said, “We’re going to be in terribly close quarters for, well. Months, I expect. You should have some privacy while you can get it.” 

Henry rolled his eyes and hauled his bag up onto the bed. “I’m going to turn in early,” he said. “If you want to help Blue get settled.” 

Blue winked at Henry. He winked back, and then Blue was pressed up against him, pulling him down by the neck. Her mouth was firm and waxy against his cheekbone. By the time Henry could react, she was already hauling up her enormous purse and heading out the door. 

Gansey hovered, for just an instant. He reached out, palm up, as if he was about to touch Henry’s face, before clenching his hand into a fist and letting it drop. Henry took the opportunity to fistbump him. 

“Thank you,” Gansey blurted, and scurried after her. 

Henry rolled his eyes. He changed out, and rolled up his shorts and his shirt to tuck them into a side compartment. The bed was big enough that he just left his bag at the footend and climbed in. RoboBee drifted to perch on Gansey’s bedside lamp, throwing off dim light and an insect reflection from under the shade. 

The bathroom was ensuite. Henry relieved himself and washed his hands with sandalwood-scented soap. He hopped into the shower just for a few minutes, barely washing himself, mostly just rinsing off the road. He’d left his skincare bag in the car; he didn’t wash his face. Skipping a day was better than bar soap. 

The medicine cabinet was open. Henry brushed his teeth staring at expired prescription bottles. Adderall, expiry date 2009. Clonazepam, a low dosage, 2005. Zoloft, not until 2012, but the bottle hadn’t been opened. Dexedrine, 2011. Lexapro, also 2011. Ritalin, 2007. 

Henry padded back into the bedroom and put his toothbrush into his unzipped essentials toiletry bag. His watch was on the nightstand. He slipped into bed; he was wearing an undershirt and his underwear. He hadn’t packed warmer sleep pants. 

The sheets were cool and silky against his skin. The room was air conditioned, a little chilly; Henry pulled a thin quilt over himself. 

Gansey had flipped the lights off when he left, but the room was lit from outside. Henry couldn’t tell if there were floodlights on the lawn or if the moon was just particularly bright. 

He wasn’t tired. 

Henry let his mind wander. He thought about Monmouth, and Gansey’s impersonal bedroom here. Henry had been living at Monmouth for perhaps two weeks and his room had ten times the personality that this room did. More, even. 

Henry thought about Gansey’s parents moving eight-year-old medication bottles into a new bathroom cabinet and Helen’s old clothes into the closet and wondered what they were trying to prove. 

He wondered if anyone would notice if he pocketed the Dexedrine bottle, which was still half full, and then what the point would be. 

Henry got out his phone, half to google drug expiry dates and half to fill the time. He replied to a few pending text messages. He looked for places they could go tomorrow, close-by, depending on how awful brunch was likely to be. He found a few things and sighed, before shutting the screen off and sliding his phone onto the nightstand, hoping it wouldn't die overnight. 

He hoped brunch wouldn't be awful. He hoped Blue wouldn't pick a fight with the Ganseys. 

He hoped he wouldn't pick a fight with the Ganseys; he liked them, as long as he was thinking about them as interesting and important adults, and not as Gansey’s parents. 

Henry wondered if Blue would kiss his cheek again if he did something right at breakfast. Brunch. 

Henry reached up to where he could still feel Blue’s mouth tingling against his cheek. He rubbed his thumb against it, considering, scraped his thumbnail over the spot. He wondered if any of Blue’s lipstick had smeared across his cheek. Whether it had come off under his thumbnail. He shivered. 

There were tissues on the nightstand. 

It was a terrible idea, really; Henry wasn’t going to throw out dirty tissues in Gansey’s trash, but he had extra ziplock bags in his duffel exactly for this. Not for _this_ , but for secretive and emergency trash disposal. It was an option. If he wanted to. 

He wasn’t sure he wanted to. It would set a terrible precedent. 

Gansey and Blue were just in the next room. Gansey would be back any moment. 

Unfortunately, neither of those thoughts was much of a deterrent. 

Henry shut his eyes, and shuddered. He reached under the blankets and pressed his hand against himself. He did not want to get used to this. But surely just once wouldn’t be the end of the world. 

Henry reached out, stretching his other arm towards the nightstand. His hand bumped into something soft. 

He opened his eyes, expecting it to be the tissues, but his hand was pressed against Gansey’s stuffed animal. 

Henry’s other hand left his boxers with alacrity. He wiped it against the sheets. 

He pulled the stuffed animal closer. He had assumed it would be the usual all-American teddy bear, but it was a lamb: fluffy, with a small dark face and dark hooves. Its wool had probably once been white, and very soft, but now it was pilling and greyish. 

Henry touched a fingertip to a dark hoof. 

“Sorry,” he said, quietly. 

The sheep didn't have any identifiable facial features, but Henry could sense its judgement. 

Henry pulled it into bed with him. Blue had brought her battered bunny along; he'd seen it tucked onto the top of one of her countless bags in the backseat. 

He rolled over and curled around it. Henry pressed his nose into the softer spot underneath its chin and inhaled. 

It smelled like Gansey, a little. His detergent, and a little like his smell, underneath it all. Like his sweat but cleaner. Henry breathed in. 

He managed to drowse, like that. A little too cold but fetal-curled around Gansey’s lamb, preserving warmth. Thinking about nothing in particular, his face tucked into synthetic wool. 

&&&

Henry must have fallen asleep by the time Gansey returned for the night, because Gansey’s attempt at silent sneaking in woke him thoroughly. 

Gansey nearly slammed the door — or closed it very firmly — and then crashed into and around the bathroom. He didn't close the bathroom door all the way when he pissed, either. 

Henry was wistfully charmed by this easy companionability. He couldn’t wait to live with Gansey for a year. Several months. However long their road trip lasted before Blue and Gansey got sick of his hanging around. 

The sink was running. Henry wondered if Gansey left it on the whole time he was brushing his teeth. He imagined Blue’s likely reaction to that, the first time they shared a bathroom on the road, and curled a little closer into Gansey’s lamb, hiding a smile. 

Gansey emerged from the bathroom. He tossed most of the throw pillows off his couch, just leaving them on the floor, and then came to the nightstand. 

Henry feigned sleep. He couldn't tell what Gansey was doing. 

“Oh,” Gansey said, surprised. “I thought you were the lamp. Carry on, then.” 

He was talking to RoboBee. 

Gansey didn't head right back to his couch though. His hand brushed close to Henry’s face and Henry blinked his eyes open. 

Gansey pressed his thumb where Blue had kissed Henry. “Shh,” he said. “Sorry I woke you.” 

Henry didn't know what to say. He blinked again, blearily. 

Gansey tweaked his lamb’s ear. “Go to sleep,” Gansey said, and then pulled his shirt off and crawled into his sofa. His breathing steadied out within a few minutes. Henry wondered what he and Blue had gotten up to, exactly. 

He checked his watch on the nightstand. It was barely midnight. He set his alarm and curled back up in his warm spot, and did his best to fall back into a doze. 

&&&

Henry woke easily at his alarm, which consisted of RoboBee buzzing against his throat instead of his phone blaring. Henry blinked awake and reached to his neck to push it off him. RoboBee circled his head then, flashing something in Morse code he was too bleary to work out. 

Henry threw his legs out of bed. Gansey was drooling on his pillow. Henry scrambled loosely over the sheets as he was getting his toiletries together and came up with Gansey’s lamb. He tucked it into the curve of Gansey’s elbow on his way to the bathroom. 

He showered, scrubbing himself down with a borrowed washcloth. Henry might not have his skincare products with him, but he'd brought his hair things; he took a long, cool shower, and toweled dry with the generic solid-colored towel hanging next to what he assumed was Gansey’s, a brightly patterned heavy beach towel. 

He spent a good twenty minutes on his hair. Gansey didn't own a blow-dryer, shame on him and his excellent hair, but Henry had a travel-sized one in his kit. 

When his hair was impressively spiky, and hopefully more tolerant of wind than it had been yesterday, Henry emerged. He pulled some clothes on, a nice pair of jeans and a button-down shirt, his sunglasses tucked into the breast pocket. By the time he was dressed, Gansey was stirring. 

“What time’s it?” Gansey said, rubbing at his eyes. 

RoboBee flashed: 0840. He tucked it into his pocket. 

“Early,” Henry said. “You've got an hour or so before you need to be downstairs.” 

Gansey hummed. Henry ruffled his hair and nudged him back into his sunken spot on the couch, where he'd been starting to sit up. 

“I'm gonna sleep in,” Gansey protested. “Gotta —” and he broke on a yawn. “Gotta shower.” 

“I'll have RoboBee wake you,” Henry said, gently. Gansey’s morning ablutions were generally hurried seven-minute affairs; he could fit in another hour of sleep, easily. Gansey didn’t fight him. 

“Mm,” Gansey said, settling. “Okay.” 

Henry pulled the blanket over Gansey, who cracked an eye open to glare at him. Henry laughed. RoboBee settled on the nose of Gansey’s lamb and flickered at Henry. 

&&&

Henry carefully shut the door behind him. Blue was standing in the hallway, frowning at the long Persian rug. She looked up. 

“Is he up?” 

Henry shook his head. “RoboBee’s gonna go off in an hour, give him time to shower before brunch.” 

Blue chewed on her lip. Her hair was still damp, and she wasn’t wearing makeup. The scars around her eye looked vividly red against the hallway’s maroon wallpaper. Henry waited. 

“Do you think we could sneak out?” Blue asked. Henry couldn’t tell how serious she was. 

Henry said, “I’m pretty sure they’d catch us leaving. And besides —” and Blue was looking at him, incredulous, but Henry finished his sentence: “They’re not that bad.” 

Blue didn’t say anything. Henry said, “They’re really not. They’re perfectly nice people. You just have to —” and Blue interrupted with, “Pretend they’re not —?” 

Henry shrugged. He could hear how Blue was ending the sentence: the people who think I’m not good enough, the people who make Gansey come home all miserable. Republicans. 

Henry didn’t hold the last thing against them, or at least not the way Blue did. He found it reprehensible, but lots of people were Republicans: Henry had gotten used to that, at Aglionby. He didn’t understand how Blue hadn’t learned to accept that. She was from Virginia. 

It wasn’t as though Gansey had ever said much to disavow his parents, even when presented with Blue’s ten-point lectures on why his mother’s politics were abominable. Lynch was a disreputable anarchist. Parrish, though apolitical, certainly tended towards the bootstrappy, and had almost certainly voted for Gansey’s mother. 

He understood where Blue was coming from, though, at least with the way they treated Gansey. It was unbelievable, really. The way the Ganseys really seemed to think they loved each other. 

Blue said, “Fine,” with grim resolve. 

“Maybe just don’t say much,” Henry suggested, lightly. Blue laughed, which was a relief. 

“Same to you,” she said. 

“Only food shall pass my lips,” Henry agreed, before gallantly offering her his arm as they headed down the stairs. She rolled her eyes, and didn’t take it. 

&&&

Mr. Gansey was the only person up and in the kitchen. He was doing something complicated with a whisk and a copper bowl. 

“Hello, hello!” he exclaimed. “I’m nearly done with this; the Senator asked me to make souffles. I wasn’t expecting you kids to be up so early.” 

Henry looked at Blue. 

“I’m an early riser,” Blue said, which was a shameless lie if ever Henry had heard one. He nonetheless made an affirmative noise to back her up. 

“Well,” Mr. Gansey said. “Why don’t you get started on buttering the ramekins?” 

Blue stared at him, blank-faced. Mr. Gansey was beating egg-whites by hand. 

Henry caved, and said, “Sure.” He wasn’t sure where the butter was, but he opened the fridge. 

“Butter’s in a crock on the windowsill,” Mr. Gansey said. Blue fetched something red and ceramic down and handed it to Henry. He stared at it. Who didn’t keep butter in the fridge? 

“We don’t know where anything is,” Blue said, audibly annoyed. Henry hoped Mr. Gansey would take it as an impersonal irritation, a respectable one, sparked by an inability to Perform to Specifications. 

He seemed to. At the very least, he laughed. “Do either of you want to take over beating the eggs, then?” he asked. “Takes some real muscle.” 

Bewilderingly, he looked expectantly at Henry, whose arms had never met a muscle in their lives. Henry was the lean and hungry type. 

Blue reached up. “I can do it,” she said. “Two summers ago our hand mixer finally broke, it was older than my _mom_ , and my cousin Orla decided she wanted to learn how to make a Pavlova anyway.” 

Mr. Gansey handed down the copper pot, and began explaining something about the angle of the whisk and how the copper stopped a souffle from falling. Blue looked fierce. Henry peered around the kitchen. He couldn’t tell what else had to get done. Henry had gone for brunch before, but always catered; he’d never seen it being made. 

“Now,” Mr. Gansey said, and clapped Henry on the shoulder hard enough that Henry nearly staggered. “Let’s see. What else is there left to do?” 

Henry said, “I really couldn’t tell you.” He wished he hadn't had to, because he honestly hated to let down Mr. Gansey, whose disappointed face was somehow simultaneously deeply familiar and shockingly well-proportioned. 

Gansey very much took after his father. It made Henry feel a little strange, and a little jealous of Blue, the same way that seeing Maura Sargent made him feel a little jealous of Gansey. Like a glance into the future. Blue and Gansey were going to be a very attractive couple for probably the rest of their lives, and Henry was just going to have to live with it. 

Blue tossed her hair in a fair-if-cruel impersonation of Helen when she was irritated. “Henry,” she said. “Haven’t you ever _brunched_ before?” 

Henry gave her a murderous look; she was going to make him laugh. 

Instead, he said, “You know, Korea doesn’t really do breakfast food,” because he knew how to make polite conversation. It was true, and Mr. Gansey would know how to pick up and run with a statement like that. 

Mr. Gansey, thank god, did. He buttered the ramekins himself, and put Henry to work squeezing orange halves in a juicer while Henry talked about how hard it was to find decent kimchi in Henrietta. Of course Mrs. Woo had always managed to source it somehow — he really wasn’t sure she cooked — but that was a less interesting story. 

Blue chimed in, “I like bibimbap,” which startled Henry a little. She shrugged at him, still beating at the eggs. “It’s probably not authentic but Calla makes a really good leftover breakfast scramble. That’s what she calls it.” 

Henry said, “Probably authentic enough,” drily. 

Mr. Gansey poured the orange juice into a jug and put it in the fridge, and then set Henry to washing blueberries and raspberries and blackberries and strawberries. 

“Just put them in the berry bowl when you’re done,” he said, and Blue caught Henry’s eye over Mr. Gansey’s shoulder as he was inspecting her eggs. _Berry bowl_ , Blue mouthed, her eyebrows arched expressively. 

“There we go,” Mr. Gansey said, removing Blue’s copper pot from her grip. She wandered over to sit next to Henry at the counter, clambering up onto a barstool nearly as tall as she was. She fished a raspberry out of the bowl. Henry pinched at her finger with the tiny sharp device Mr. Gansey had given him to trim strawberries. 

Mr. Gansey was folding the eggwhites into some sort of base and spooning it into the serving-sized ramekins. 

“ _There_ ,” he said, dusting off his hands as he moved the bakeware onto a cookie sheet. “Now they just go into the oven and they’ll be ready when the Senator and Dickie finally make it downstairs.” 

Henry and Blue made eye contact. She and Henry had spent more than one Ganseyless evening getting not-so-stealthily drunk on pilfered cooking sherry and making up the sorts of things that were going to happen in the world because of Senator Gansey’s vote: oil spills, the repeal of hate crime laws, stonewalling healthcare reform. 

Henry was fairly sure Mr. Gansey wouldn’t be mentioning politics, even obliquely, if he’d known it was likely to be a sore subject, between Henry’s center-left Canadian sensibilities and Blue’s anarchistic philosophy of “basic human decency.” That was what she called it, at least. 

“You call your wife Senator?” Blue asked. Henry elbowed her. Blue vengefully stole a strawberry. She wasn’t helping him with food prep at _all_. Henry tried not to feel indignant. 

Mr. Gansey answered, absently and automatically, “You know, just for the turn-on.” 

Blue nearly squawked, and then made a delightedly horrified face at Henry. Henry wanted to sink through the floor, or, at the very least, be able to pretend he’d never heard that. 

Mr. Gansey’s shoulders did the same thing Gansey’s did when he was embarrassed. He turned towards them sheepishly, closing the oven, and said, “Let’s not mention that little slip to Dickie, eh?” 

Henry nodded, mutely. He couldn’t look at Blue. 

“Any other special requests?” Mr. Gansey said, trying to paper over mortification with joviality. Henry could relate. “I’m about to start up the stove for some bacon and eggs, maybe omelettes?” 

Henry said, “Blue likes yogurt.” 

Blue elbowed him and stole another strawberry. 

“Of course,” Mr. Gansey said. “The Senator — Naomi — likes a parfait, too.” 

Blue visibly wanted to mouth _parfait_ at Henry. She restrained herself. He handed her some blueberries instead, and she swung her heels as she popped them into her mouth, one by one. 

&&&

Gansey came staggering downstairs half a minute before his mother did, right as the souffles were coming out of the oven. He had his contacts in and his hair gelled back, his presidential face on. Henry missed his floppy hair. 

Gansey rubbed his forehead into Blue’s back, the dip between her shoulderblades where her scoopneck cut off. 

“Perfect timing,” Mr. Gansey boomed. None of the souffles had fallen in the oven. 

Berries and fresh squeezed orange juice were on the table, along with bacon and sausage and three kinds of toast and about ten types of jam. Mr. Gansey had whipped up a quick omelette for Senator Gansey, which he pulled out of the warming tray and presented to her with a flourish. 

Mrs. Gansey accepted it with a kiss on the cheek. “The souffles look wonderful,” she said. They did. 

Blue was already eating artisanal yogurt with handcrafted granola in it. A few blueberries lurked darkly under the surface. 

Mr. Gansey made Mrs. Gansey a mimosa. Henry desperately longed for some champagne in his glass of orange juice. 

"So," Mrs. Gansey said, once they were all settled around the table and everyone had made a dent in their plates. She spoke with the air of one making light conversation. "Where are you from?" 

" _Henrietta_ ," Blue said, in a dangerous voice. Gansey was attempting to melt under the table in discomfort. 

“Of course, dear,” Mrs. Gansey said, “we remember, the psychics. I was asking your friend.” 

"Vancouver," Henry said, mostly for Blue, and smiled. 

“And your family?” Mr. Gansey asked. 

Blue puffed up like a balloon about to pop. Henry nudged his foot against hers under the table, without looking. At least he hoped it was Blue’s foot, and the attempt netted him a brief and startled glance, so he was fairly sure it was. He was used to explaining, and he could tell the Ganseys thought they were being polite. 

“My mother’s family is Korean,” Henry said. He wondered if he was supposed to call Mr. Gansey sir. “I grew up there, too. And my dad’s Chinese.” 

“I expect you grew up bilingual, then?” Mrs. Gansey said. 

“Yes,” Henry said, “in Korean and Chinese,” which was somewhat overstating his capability in Chinese, but it sounded impressive. “I learned English in school.” 

Mrs. Gansey laughed, and told him his English was very good. Gansey oozed a little further under the table, until a frown from his father had him pulling himself upright and his mask back on. 

Henry said, “Thank you,” because Mrs. Gansey had clearly intended it as a compliment. 

Blue was still upset. He nudged his foot back against hers under the table. 

Henry said, “I also speak some French, actually,” and Mrs. Gansey made a delighted face. 

“It's a lovely language,” she said. “I studied it through university.” 

“Well,” Henry said, “it was required through the Canadian school system, and then I just kept going with it at Aglionby. I don't have any particular talent for it.” 

Mrs. Gansey murmured that she was sure he was better than he thought, and Mr. Gansey said, “I really think more Americans should learn another language. Something they can use traveling. I've no head for languages myself, but it really does broaden the experience.” 

Henry smiled, and nodded. He said, “Who needs to travel? Something like fifteen percent of your population speaks Spanish, and that number’s only growing. I don't see why D.C. hasn't made Spanish-language education mandatory nationwide.” 

There was an awkward silence. Henry continued smiling like he didn't know Mrs. Gansey had run to the right on immigration during her campaign; as if Gansey hadn’t made an awkward joke about Henry’s student visa expiring over the course of their road trip. 

Blue wound her ankle around Henry's under the table. 

Mr. Gansey cleared his throat, and said, “So where are you kids thinking for school, after this trip of yours?” 

Gansey made a small and miserable noise. His parents ignored it. This must have been a frequent topic of discussion when he was recalled home. 

Blue jumped in. “I haven’t applied yet.” 

Mrs. Gansey looked politely surprised. “Oh?” 

“I’m going to have to do at least a year of community college first,” Blue said. “And then transfer. I’m aiming for UVA.” 

The Ganseys had clearly never never considered community college. Possibly they had never been aware of its existence as anything more than an abstract concept. Henry felt terrible about all the bad things he’d thought about Blue and Gansey at college together. 

“UVA has guaranteed transfer acceptance,” Blue said, plunging gamely ahead. “And community college is cheaper. It also means I can clear my gen-eds out of the way to focus on what I really want to study.” 

Here the Ganseys were on firmer ground. Things like gen-ed requirements and choosing a major were things they knew how to discuss. 

“And what might that be?” Mr. Gansey asked, in a jovial voice which indicated that his sentence had very nearly ended with _little lady_. 

“I’m not sure yet,” Blue said. She seemed to realize that uncertainty was a conversation-killer. Her hesitation was slight; Henry wasn’t sure if the Ganseys had even noticed it. 

“I’m interested in environmental work,” she added, innocently. “Maybe green architecture. I’ve been reading a lot about the way buildings can work with their surroundings. I don’t know if I have the math for it, though.” 

Mrs. Gansey attempted to respond, but Blue steamrolled past her polite intake of breath. “Or I might look at something more in political science, maybe work on government regulation or lobbying for greater environmental protections,” as if she wasn’t fully aware that Mrs. Gansey had campaigned on a business-friendly deregulatory platform. 

The Ganseys were silent for another beat. 

“What about you?” Mr. Gansey said. 

Henry looked at Gansey. He was sitting upright, posture-perfect, his expression pleasant. He looked strange like this. Henry had gotten used to casual Gansey, everyday Gansey. Gansey away from the Ganseys. 

Gansey’s jaw was pleasantly firm, but his mouth was brittle. His parents had been pushed to their limit. 

Henry didn’t push them further. He said, “Harvard,” easily, and smiled at Mrs. Gansey. “With our friend Adam. I think it’ll be a good fit.” 

Gansey’s fingertips twitched. Henry smothered a frown. He’d intended to imply that it wasn’t necessarily a good fit for everyone, that Gansey's lack of interest in the Ivies didn't mean anything except that the Ivies weren't for him, but apparently that wasn’t how Gansey’s parents were likely to take it. 

Henry felt guilty, but he wasn’t sure how to make up for it. 

“Do you have any suggestions?” he asked, instead. A change of topic. “For our trip. I think the plan right now is mostly state parks and roadside attractions.” 

“We’ve mostly spent time in Virginia, the last year or so,” Mr. Gansey said. “With the campaign, and then Naomi’s work. And we usually vacation at one of our properties anyway.” 

Gansey quietly said, “I think the plan is to avoid cities.” 

“Of course, you know the alarm codes, Dickie,” Mrs. Gansey said, as if he hadn’t spoken. “If you ever want to take a few days at a lake house or an investment property. It’d certainly be nicer than some of the motels you’ll be used to staying in by then, God knows, even in the unfurnished places.” 

“Thanks, Senator,” Blue said, easily. “I’m sure my mom would be glad to know I was staying in some decent places. She’s been going on about how motels are dens of sin.” 

“ _Your_ mom?” Henry said, because that didn’t sound much like Maura Sargent. 

“Right?” Blue said, rolling her eyes, and then started telling a story about how Maura had met Calla and a third woman on the side of the road, with the much-embroidered affect of someone telling a Family Story, a foundational piece of her life’s mythology. 

Blue was a good storyteller; Henry appreciated it. The Ganseys were engaged and active listeners, laughing and looking shocked and asking questions at the right times, without interrupting Blue or disrupting the flow of her story. Any earlier awkwardness was easily put aside. 

Gansey was sitting silently in his seat, cutting his omelette into smaller and smaller pieces. Henry wanted to nudge his foot against Gansey’s under the table. Blue’s ankle was still curled around his as she talked, a help and comfort. 

Gansey was sitting across from him, between his parents. The chance of hitting the wrong foot under the table was too high for Henry to risk it. But the look on Gansey’s face made him want to. 

&&&

Mr. Gansey wouldn’t let them help clean up after brunch was done, though of course Henry offered. 

Mrs. Gansey said, “Blue, could I talk to you for a moment?” and gave Gansey a disapproving look when he attempted to follow. Henry took Gansey’s elbow. 

“Hey,” Henry said in a low voice, as Mr. Gansey was moving pans around the kitchen sink. “Why don’t we go get our stuff packed up?” 

Gansey nodded. He kept his face tilted down. Henry tugged him off, after thanking Mr. Gansey as politely as he knew how, for hosting and for brunch. 

Neither he nor Gansey really had much to pack; both of them were living out of duffel bags, not Blue’s collection of tiny rolling suitcases and enormous purses and recycled IKEA bags. Henry just zipped his bag up, and then turned to look at Gansey as he tidied his things away as well. 

Gansey finished and turned to face Henry. They stood there, looking at each other. Henry wondered what Mrs. Gansey was talking to Blue about, that was taking so long. Maybe it was a lecture about premarital sex. Henry wouldn’t be surprised, given her professed politics, but he rather suspected that she was far too late on that account. 

Henry picked up Gansey’s lamb. “What about this guy,” he said. “Is it a guy?” 

“Rupert?” Gansey asked, surprised. “I suppose it doesn't really matter. But yes, I always thought he was a boy. He was a hand-me-down from Helen — when she owned him he had a little pink bow sewn in by his ear and he was named Emma, or Emily, or something. I cut it off when I renamed him and she threw the most unbelievable fit.” 

He paused, as if considering that this story might reflect poorly on Helen, and then added, “She was eight.” 

Henry tossed Rupert over to Gansey. “Well,” he said. “Are you packing him?” 

Gansey caught Rupert when he thumped against his chest. It had been a light toss from close range; Gansey’s hand-eye coordination was truly awful. Henry always forgot. 

Gansey blinked. He peered at Rupert, where the wool around his face was matted enough that his eyes were nearly invisible. 

“Should I?” Gansey said, doubtfully. “I feel like that might be weird.” 

“Blue’s got her bunny along,” Henry said, easily. “And you didn't buy any souvenirs in Charlottesville.” 

Gansey laughed. He said, “I bought a blanket,” like Henry was being silly. 

Henry said, “That was a practicality. Souvenirs can’t be practical. It’s like a rule.” 

Gansey looked at Henry, cheek still barely dimpled. “A souvenir,” he said, like he was checking to see how that felt, and Henry smiled at him. 

&&&

With Rupert safely tucked into Gansey’s bag, there really wasn't much of anything to do. 

“Should I strip the sheets?” Henry said, doubtfully. 

“Of course not,” Gansey said. “The cleaning lady will do that when she comes tomorrow.” 

Henry glanced at him. Gansey grimaced. 

“This is a weird bed,” Gansey admitted. “I'm not actually sure how the sheets work. Best to leave it.” 

Henry said, “Bet Blue’s going to strip the guest room.” 

Gansey said, “She packed up all her things last night before bed. We could probably take them downstairs for her and she wouldn't have to come back up here,” and Henry tried to remind himself that plotting against Blue rarely worked. Instead, he was mostly pleased to be included. 

They went into the guest room next door, leaving their bags in the hallway. It was neat and tidy, the bed made back up and undisturbed. Blue’s enormous purse was lying on the footend of the bed next to a half-open toiletry bag. 

Gansey zipped her toothbrush into the bag and put it into her purse, before slinging the whole thing over his shoulder. On Blue, the patchwork bag looked eccentric and crafty and hand-made, and perhaps a little shabby. On Gansey, it looked like something trendy purchased to support local handcrafting techniques in a small South American mountain village. Henry didn't know how he did it. 

They headed downstairs, down the main staircase. Blue came storming out of a side room as they descended. 

“Let’s go,” she said, voice clipped. Gansey didn’t follow straight after her, but went into the room she’d fled, presumably to wish his mother well. 

“Everything alright?” Henry asked Blue in a low voice while they loitered in the foyer. 

Blue shook her head. “Yeah,” she said, reluctantly. “Just —” 

She was silent until Gansey emerged. 

“They just don’t know him at all,” Blue said in an undertone, low enough that Gansey couldn't hear. 

&&&

They drove due south. Henry was navigating; Gansey was glumly folded into the backseat. 

“What he needs is distance,” Blue had told Henry. That meant putting on speed, and hoping that Gansey’s dissatisfaction remained a malaise rather than sharpening into something more acute. 

“Do you have a destination in mind?” Henry asked Blue. 

“Find something,” she said, but it wasn’t an order. She was worried. 

Henry had RoboBee’s mapping functionality open on his phone, a charger plugged into the cigarette lighter. It clung stubbornly to the dash, crawling in circles. With the window open, the countryside rushed past. Henry felt very physically present, like he couldn’t have been anywhere else in the world but here. 

Henry directed Blue down 301, south out of DC. Blue grimly drove the speed limit. Henry glanced over his shoulder at Gansey, who was already settling more every second they were driving away. 

Wilbur was cooperative. They were all relieved to be leaving, to be on their own. 

The views weren’t exactly lovely, but these smaller roads were greener than the highway. In Port Royal, Henry directed Blue and Wilbur onto 17. 

He glanced behind himself again and caught Gansey gazing out the window, his thumb resting against his lower lip. 

When they pulled off 17 and onto minor roads, Gansey spoke. He asked, “Where are we going?” 

“I’ll let you know when Henry tells me,” Blue said, aping grumpiness. 

“It’s a surprise,” Henry said. “You’re going to be dazzled and amazed.” 

Gansey laughed. Blue touched Henry’s knee over the gear shift, maybe in thanks; she pulled her hand away again so quickly that Henry couldn’t be sure. 

&&&

“Here,” Henry said. 

“I’ve been here,” Gansey said, quietly, his cheek pressed against the rear window by then. 

“Of course you have,” Henry said. “It’s got a Welsh name and it’s in Virginia.” 

“There’s a museum here,” Gansey said. “It might still be open.” 

Henry said, “RoboBee, check hours for the — what’s it called?” 

“The Gwynn Island Museum,” Gansey said. 

Henry gestured at RoboBee. “For that.” And his phone buzzed. 

_Gwynn Island Museum_ , the alert read. _Open 1-5, Fri-Sun. April thru October. Free admission; donations appreciated._

Gansey was by now sitting forward, pressing his shoulders against the front seats. His chin was on Henry’s seat shoulder so he could peer at Henry’s phone. Henry fought the urge to hide the screen. There was nothing embarrassing there at the moment, obviously, but a mortifying text alert could come in at any moment. 

“It’s Saturday,” Gansey said, hopefully. “What time is it?” 

Henry checked his watch. It was 3:40. 

“Sure,” Henry said, and directed Blue towards the museum. It wasn’t much to look at, just a little house, but. Alright. 

Gansey pushed the front seat forward and clambered out of the car the second Henry vacated his seat. 

“He’s awfully enthusiastic, isn’t he,” Henry asked Blue as Gansey headed towards the house. Towards the museum. 

“He probably knows the staff,” Blue said. She slammed the driver’s side door. Her tone wasn’t quite resigned, didn’t quite make a fond mockery of Gansey’s foibles. 

“Wanna bet?” Henry said, and Blue rolled her eyes. 

“You still owe me ten bucks from lunch earlier,” she said, as Gansey impatiently waved from the museum’s front steps. “It’s too easy to take your money.” 

&&&

The museum was alright. Nothing special: small-town histories of people Henry didn’t care about, and full to the brim of self-congratulatory American military iconography. But they were the only ones in the museum, and Gansey was enthusiastic, and they got to stay past close. 

Gansey did know the staff. Blue gave Henry a look when that came out, when Gansey had an enthusiastic conversation with some middle-aged curator. All three of them were still sweating in the museum’s air conditioning. 

Blue stood very close to Gansey, and nodded along with whatever the curator was saying, and tucked her hand into the pale and slightly sweaty hollow of Gansey’s inner elbow. Henry would have licked it, probably. Or wanted to. Blue just made a face and took her hand away, and tucked her fingertips into Gansey’s belt loops instead. 

It had been a long day and he felt very out of place here. 

They left the museum at just after six, an hour after close. Two hours was really the longest time Henry thought he’d have been physically capable of spending there; they’d been there longer than that. Gansey looked refreshed and renewed; Henry wouldn’t have guessed that Gansey had been a quiet and miserable creature just a few hours ago. 

RoboBee was sitting on Blue’s shoulder, in the curve of her neck. It took a few steps up the side of her neck and buzzed off to circle her head. 

“There’s a great seafood place here,” Gansey said, and looked at Blue and Henry expectantly. “We could get dinner and go look at the ocean.” 

“You can’t see the ocean from here,” Henry said, easily. Blue chewed her lip, and Gansey frowned. 

&&&

They drove back to the bridge that connected the island to the mainland and got dinner at a tiny diner of a place, what might have been the island’s only restaurant, open 8 am to 8 pm daily. It was the very start of the soft shell crab season; their waitress told them that the season started with the first full moon in May. Henry tried not to be charmed; Gansey, at a glance, wasn’t even trying to resist. He loved that sort of thing, the old-fashioned romance of it. 

The place was busy, with locals and tourists alike. Henry knotted his straw wrapper over and over. Service was slow. 

Gansey ate oysters; he let Henry steal a few. Blue wasn’t interested in trying any. She had ordered a salad appetizer and it came out faintly wilted, a concession to healthy eaters at a restaurant where most of the specialties came raw or fried or, at best, steamed. She had steamed shrimp, some of the catch of the day. There probably wasn’t going to be much point in ordering separately, Henry was beginning to realize; he traded one of his soft shell crabs for some of Blue’s shrimp. They gorged themselves on soft shell crabs and hushpuppies and fried and steamed fish. 

They split the cheque and headed out. Henry wondered if they could spend a year avoiding America’s landlocked regions. The sun was beginning to bow towards the horizon behind them. 

Blue got into the car. She took them around the island’s roads out to the easternmost point she could find. There was an RV lot. Blue drove past it. She left the car parked on the side of the road and clambered down some rocks towards the water. There was a pile of rocks jutting a little distance into the water that might loosely be termed a jetty. Blue walked out to the end of it, holding her shoes in her hand, and sat down. 

Gansey was drowsy in the passenger seat, so Henry turned the car off and climbed out after her. This was a terrible idea; he was going to slip and bash his head in. It wasn’t a sandy beach. It was mostly rocks. He wasn’t sure it was a beach at all. 

Blue was peering at the horizon. The sky was murky, not quite approaching darkness, but they had their backs to the sunset. 

“What’s up?” Henry said. He sat down next to her, crossing his legs instead of letting them dangle like Blue was. His knee was nearly in her lap. 

Blue pointed her hand out at the horizon, her palm up. 

The horizon was far enough out that you couldn’t see the rest of the peninsula crawling down from Maryland. They were just looking out at nothing, at a flat expanse of water, at waves that smashed implacably and placidly at the rocks beneath Blue’s feet. 

She put her shoes down next to her on the flat rock she’d perched on, and pulled up her leggings to just under her knees. Her toenail polish was chipped and bare feet were wet. Sea spray was misting the hair on her legs. 

Henry said, “What about it?” 

And Blue said, “I can’t stop thinking about what you said earlier. That this isn’t the ocean.” 

Henry said, “It’s Chesapeake Bay. It’s an estuary.” He gestured towards the horizon. “Maryland and Delaware are out there.” 

“Yeah,” Blue said. “And part of Virginia. The Delmarva Peninsula,” she added, with the voice of someone who’d had a unit on Virginia geography in elementary school. Henry made an affirmative noise. 

Blue said, “But it looks like the ocean. You should be able to tell that something’s not…” 

She trailed off into silence. 

Henry put both hands on the rock, next to his hips, and leaned back onto them a little. 

Blue said, “I’ve never seen the ocean before,” and put her hand on the rock next to Henry’s, close enough that he could feel the heat of her finger against his. “This feels like seeing the ocean. Even though I know it’s not.” 

Henry thought about meeting Blue. About taking her to Venezuela. About how badly Blue had wanted to leave Henrietta, to see the world, about how badly her options had been limited and how much this trip must mean to her. 

He nudged his hand against hers, a casual little movement that might easily have been an accident. 

“We’ll see the ocean,” Henry said. Blue sighed, and put her head against his shoulder. They sat there looking out at the water until the sunset faded, and Gansey finally stumbled down from the car, rubbing at his face. 

She pulled away from Henry’s side at Gansey’s arrival. Not as if she had anything to hide, anything to be ashamed of, just sitting up because someone else was entering their space. She looked over her shoulder at Gansey, and they must have had some sort of silent couple conversation, because she turned back around while Gansey was awkwardly waving hello to Henry. 

Gansey didn’t take his shoes off. He sat next to Henry, and put his feet down the side of the jetty. He offered a fist to bump. The side of Blue’s hand was still nudged up against Henry’s. Henry knocked his fist against Gansey’s, and put his hand back next to Blue’s, not touching it. 

“Hey,” Gansey said. “It’s late.” 

Blue pressed her hand against Henry’s again. Henry’s knee was digging into Gansey’s thigh. Henry was getting cold, but Blue and Gansey were on either side of him, throwing off heat. He worried about their feet. The ocean wouldn’t be warm, this early in the summer. 

Gansey put his hand on Henry’s knee. Henry refused to be weird about it, but it felt very good. 

“Yeah,” Blue said, and put her head back against Henry’s shoulder. 

Gansey squeezed at Henry’s knee. “We should find a place to sleep,” he said, but they sat there, the three of them, until the stars came out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i’m putting the date of trk in 2012, as i believe is fandom standard, but running on a Fictional Politics Time (i.e., a west wing election cycle). in trc, 2012 is a midterm election, just because i can’t IMAGINE a blue who was 18 in 2012 and didn’t get out to rock the vote.  
> this fic is therefore set in summer 2013, if any of you care.  
> all the travel times should be fairly accurate based on google maps etc, not counting pig breakdowns et cetera. so should all apps / music releases etc. mentioned; let me know if i missed something.  
> there is no italian restaurant in charlottesville that i’m aware of, or at least none fitting this description, which draws a lot from the various faintly sketchy upmarket italian places in my hometown. nor is there a record store, but this exactly what every record store i’ve been in literally nationwide has been like, so.  
> the only research i did on cville was cursory map squinting re: uva and where the downtown is and stuff. also, fuck thomas jefferson. sorry 2 any wahoos reading this.  
> 2013 visitas (harvard accepted students weekend) was cancelled due to the marathon bombings; that felt weird to just Throw In There Unwarned For but. there you go.  
> they take 301 south out of dc and take 17 from port royal before wandering on minor roads out to gwynn’s island. the museum and restaurant on the island are as accurate as i could get em to be from google only. most of my research is going to be like that. if i can’t get it from google maps it doesn’t exist.  
> thanks 2 izzy pistolheart & renee burn-it-slow for beta and looking over this and et cetera; remaining errors are mine only. hit me up on [tumblr](http://postsuffering.tumblr.com) it's my birthday next week!

**Author's Note:**

> notes for chapter 1 »[here](http://spikenards.tumblr.com/post/159961500729/)« ; it’s mostly just if you're curious about the latin, and a couple other snippets of half-hearted research. if you liked the fic, consider reblogging it!
> 
> the title is, of course, from madonna's seminal _like a virgin_.
> 
> additional warnings for the fic overall:  
> well this is a fic about. a magic car that forces you to at the very least confront your unpleasantest feelings, being imposed on teenagers who went through some pretty severe trauma and spent most of a year Not Dealing with it. and it's also about teenagers fumbling their way towards polyamory. so nothing Too Serious but, clumsy emotions.  
> will add additional warnings for sexual content when it becomes applicable but they will include "accidental voyeurism/exhibitionism" and other Agonies of your crushes being very in love with each other and very good friends with you.


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